


Lucky

by apoptosis



Series: Without Wings [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Phil Coulson, Caw Caw Motherfucker, Clint Barton & Phil Coulson Friendship, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton-centric, Clint Feels, Clint Has Issues, Clint Needs a Hug, Dark, Dark Past, Fear, Feels, Guilt, Hawkguy, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Language, M/M, POV Clint, POV Clint Barton, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Phil keeps saving Clint's ass, Poor Clint, Protective Phil Coulson, SHIELD, Sad, Self-Destruction, Songfic, Trust Issues, WIP, Work In Progress, birb, crappy drawings for every chapter, luck, lucky - Freeform, pre slash, suicidal behaviour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7862521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apoptosis/pseuds/apoptosis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on the song Lucky, by Radiohead, this is part one of a songfic trilogy about Clint Barton, with my lame illustrations at the bottom of each chapter.</p><p>-</p><p>Clint always believed in luck, and he knew it was no accident that Phil Coulson walked into his life, but is it good luck or bad luck that will bring them together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm on a roll, this time / I feel like my luck could change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my donut](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+donut).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's been taking chances all his life, he's never really had good luck... maybe a strange man from a secret organisation can change that.

It was a Thursday when the man in the suit finally approached him. The SuitMan had been watching Clint for months; never attempting to make contact or intercept him - just watching. So Clint had let him watch. The sunglasses and the three piece had followed him from state to state, appearing every few days and then disappearing again, as though checking in on him. Clint grew accustomed to seeing a flash of cufflinks or a pair of well polished shoes skirting the edges of his vision every now and again. He had come to expect it, and found it almost comforting, as though it were a checkpoint - a constant reminder that this was all real. 

For a while Clint had thought the SuitMan was going to kill him, but after giving him several perfect situations to shoot him, and still finding himself alive, Clint figured the man wanted something else from him.

Clint had turned it into a game:

_What’s the riskiest situation I can put myself in, before SuitMan either leaves me alone, or comes and talks to me?_

 

Turns out Russian Roulette was the last straw.

 

When monkey barring beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, climbing onto the roof of the white-house to eat a sandwich, and letting 84 dogs free from a pound still didn’t manage to shake the SuitMan from his tail, Clint figured this guy meant serious business. He got sick of the game (amongst other things) and decided to really test the situation by taking things up a notch.

 

So here he was, in an abandoned warehouse three hours south of Iowa City, one gun, one bullet, one bow, and twelve arrows.

 

 _Shwihck_. He let an arrow fly, smirking in satisfaction when he heard it embed into the wooden wall. He lowered the bow and pulled up his blindfold, almost disappointed to see that once again, he had hit the bullseye of one of the many purple targets he had spray painted around the room. Almost disappointed, but certainly not surprised.

 

Pulling the blindfold back down, he took two steps backward, and three to the left. He could feel the man in the suit watching him from the window. He drew the bow, took in a breath, and go.

 _Shwihck_. Tugging down his blindfold, he stared blankly at the arrow for a few seconds. _Huh_. It was half an inch from the centre of the target. Not a big deal to most people, but everything to Clint. 

 

Clint wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t gone to school, but he had enough experience to know things. For example, Clint knew that you can’t do anything perfectly unless you practise. He also knew that practise works best with motivation. The man who taught him archery had told him this. He’d also told him that the best motivation comes from penance, not reward. They called it fear conditioning. The ultimate discipline. 

 

Clint rested his bow carefully against the wall, pulling the gun from the waistband of his jeans and checking it. Five empty slots. One bullet. He spun the cylinder, pulling the blindfold down again so he wouldn’t know where the bullet ended up, and pressed the cold metal to his temple. 

“Am I lucky today?” He asked himself quietly before pulling the trigger.

 

 _Click_. 

 

Nothing.

 

He tucked the revolver back into his jeans with a shrug, grabbing his bow again and taking a new position in the room, aiming for a different target. Still blindfolded, he raised the bow once more and knocked an arrow into place.

 

Draw, breathe, release. _Shwihck_. Bullseye. 

 

Two steps back, one step right. Draw. Breathe. Release. _Shwihck_. Bullseye.

 

One step back, three steps left. Draw. Breathe. Release. _Shwihck_. Miss! Spin the cylinder. Barrel to temple. _Click_. 

 

Four steps back, two steps right. Draw. Breathe. Release. _Shwihck_. Bullseye.

 

One step forward, five steps left. Draw. Breathe-

     “What, exactly, are you trying to achieve?” A bored voice called from behind him. 

Release. _Suit man can speak!?_ Clint didn’t let it distract him. _Shwihck._  Pulling down the blindfold to check if he had hit his mark. He had. Blindfold back on. Three steps. 

Aim.

     “Just killing time.”

Breathe.

      “You should try it.”

Release.

 _Shwihck_.

     “You missed.” The voice said flatly, and Clint finally pulled off his blindfold to look at him. The suit man was standing in front of one of Clint’s targets; an arrow buried in the wall, a hair’s breadth from his ear. He didn't seem nervous at all, not even slightly intimidated by the fact Clint still had a weapon trained on him. Clint scanned him quickly, noticing straight away that the man was armed. Each time he had seen the SuitMan before, he had been wearing sunglasses, but now that he wasn't, Clint's attention was immediately pulled to his piercing grey eyes, which were watching him with a similar intensity. He kept his outward appearance neutral, but internally, Clint was squirming under the firm gaze.

     “You’re lucky I missed, you could have died.” Clint replied casually, resting his bow by the wall and pulling the gun from his pants.

     “And now you could.” The man replied evenly. “Besides, I don’t believe in luck.”

     “Well it’s a good thing I do.” Clint said, shutting his eyes as he pressed the gun to his head once more and pulled the trigger.

 

 _Click_.

“Fifty percent of people would be dead by now.” Clint lowered the gun, watching as the other man stared neutrally at him, unfazed. “Maybe I have good luck."

     “Maybe your gun is faulty.” The man replied.

 _BANG_! Clint shot through the window to their right, then blinked, staring in surprise at the broken glass.  _Well at least it works._   _But there goes my only bullet._

     "One more miss and I’d be toast.” He voiced his realisation in a bored tone as he tossed the now empty gun to the floor. 

     “Is this some kind of game to you?” SuitMan asked, he seemed disappointed. 

     “I’m a carnie. Everything is a game to me.” Clint walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, pulling the seven arrows from each of the targets. “Speaking of games, what’s with the hide and seek we’ve been doing these last few months?”

"I need you to come with me." SuitMan stated blandly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He had a welcoming voice, that almost felt familiar, and made Clint obliged to agree. It creeped him out.

"Woah, just like that? No foreplay or anything?" Clint raised an eyebrow, folding his arms. "No."

SuitMan sighed and pulled out his gun, focusing it on Clint's head. Their eyes locked as they both stared at each other for a moment, frozen in place. 

"Would you come with me, _please_?"

"Nah." Clint eyed the gun steadily, unblinking until the man adjusted his aim to be focussed on Clints bow where it was resting gently against the wall. Clint narrowed his eyes.  _No one hurts my bow._

"Look, I don't know who you are, or what you want, but you've been trailing me long enough to know that I can make a man disappear if I need to. So instead of just waltzing in and making demands, why don't just just tell me what your really want?" Clint turned his back on SuitMan,stepping between the gun and his bow, placing his arrows back into the quiver and leaning it next to the weapon.

SuitMan rolled his eyes and lowered his gun with a resigned sigh. "I wish to discuss a business opportunity with you. I am aware of your skill set and it's uses. I cannot go into any more details about the nature of this endorsement here, so I will ask again - will you come with me?"

Clint crossed his arms and remained silent, turning back to rake his eyes over the SuitMan, trying to figure out what his deal was. There was an earpiece in his left ear, so someone else was listening in on the conversation. His suit was formal yet practical enough that it wouldn't inhibit him if he got into a fight. The expensive material gave the slightest hint of muscles hidden beneath the sleeves. SuitMan was older than him, Clint had figured that out months ago, but he wasn't foolish enough to assume that meant he was in any way weaker than Clint. SuitMan groaned in exasperation and pulled out his gun again, tipping five bullets out and dropping them into his pocket so there was only one left in the cylinder. Clint narrowed his eyes as the other man pressed the mouth of the gun against his own head.

"Everything's a game, hey? I win - you come with me. I lose, you deal with the body. As you said - you can make a man disappear." SuitMan knocked off the safety on his gun.

"Woah - No deal!" Clint said in shock, then covered his surprise with a smug look. Clint would never admit it, but SuitMan was one of the only constants in the hectic mess of his life, and he didn't want him to die before he even found out why he was following him in the first place. "The odds are five on one in your favour. I'm not letting you blackmail me into coming quietly when you're almost guaranteed to get the better end."

SuitMan blinked twice, but otherwise his impassive expression remained the same as he pulled a second gun from the inside of his jacket. ( _How many weapons is this guy carrying?)_ He scrunched his brow in annoyance, reaching to his ear and turning off his communicator.

"Fine then, lucky boy, lets even the playing field." SuitMan emptied it of all but one bullet, holding it out towards Clint.

_What the heck?_

 

Clint reached out warily to take the gun, and the moment his hand closed around the handle, SuitMan was stepping into his personal space and pushing him up against the warehouse wall, gun to his head. Clint let himself be moved, waiting to see how far things would go before he had to fight back. The man's hand dug into his shoulder blade, his knee pinning his legs to the wall. Cold was seeping into his head from the barrel of the gun, pressed firmly against his temple. He pulse quickened at the sudden proximity, surprised by the unwelcome contact.

"I'm on a tight schedule, and you're being irritatingly stubborn. Put the gun to my head, and we will both pull the triggers together. If I die, you can walk away. If you die, I'll go get a coffee. If we both die, well... the cleaner will get a shock. But if we both live, you're coming with me." SuitMan grabbed Clint's wrist and forced him to hold the gun against his head, hardly giving him enough time to process what was going on before he started counting down. "3...2...1-"

Clint pulled the trigger on instinct, heart hammering in his chest as those bored grey eyes stated into his and the two guns clicked uselessly in their hands. They both let out a slow breath, lowering the guns from each other's heads. SuitMan immediately stepped away from him, tucking the gun back into his jacket and extending a hand.

"I'm Agent Coulson," SuitMan said with a smirk. "Welcome to SHIELD." 

 


	2. kill me / kill me with your love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint thinks his first mission with SHIELD went well, despite the injuries he sustained. He's not sure what's coming next, but it's starting to seem a bit too familiar...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okie dokie so just a lil warning this chapter includes some non detailed flashbacks suggestive of child abuse. I wouldn't say it's overly graphic, but still might be upsetting for some people. the two sets of flashbacks appear in [brackets] and {braces}, just so ya know...

Clint kept his eyes fixed steadily on the white wall as the nurse tutted about around him, prodding bruises and patching up scrapes. It was nothing really, he’d dealt with much worse, but it’s not like he had anywhere better to be, so he sat patiently and let them do what they had to. He played along, jaw clenched to stay silent when the betadine stung, and rating his pain as only a 3 so the doctor wouldn’t get too worried.  
  
He recognised the footsteps in the hallway that stopped just outside the door, and the murmured voice that was questioning the doctor on the other side of the wall.   
As expected, a man in a perfectly tailored suit pushed open the door, fixing him with a firm stare.  
     “Agent Barton,” he greeted, his voice tight and flat as his eyes brushed up and down Clint’s injuries. SuitMan was a master of controlling his body language - Clint had learned that very early on - and right now, the man was ensuring that he was absolutely, entirely unreadable.   
     “Sir,” Clint didn’t move his eyes from the wall, but sat up slightly straighter despite his screaming muscles.   
     “How are you?” Coulson asked, his head tilting ever so slightly to the side. The question sounded casual enough, but the tension in the air had skyrocketed when they set eyes on each other, and Clint knew there was something else behind his words. _Is this a test?_  
     “Doesn’t hurt much,” Clint answered vaguely as SuitMan’s watchful eyes made his skin prickle.   
     “Much?” His blank stare never left Clint’s eyes. “Much more than what? A paper cut? Or a bullet?” SuitMan asked, his voice dangerously controlled.  
     “Uhm,” Clint swallowed, formulating an answer, still unsure why he was being questioned. “More than a belt-buckle, less than a knife wound.”  
Clint noted when SuitMan’s hand clenched the tiniest bit at his side, and it definitely did not make him feel any more at ease about the whole situation. There was a painful silence, interrupted only by the nurse’s steady breathing as he tended to Clint’s injuries.  
     “Why did you keep going?”  
     “Mission wasn’t complete yet,” Clint replied like it was obvious, realising too late that it was probably not the best time to be irritating his handler, as he already seemed on edge. “Sir.”  
     “So you believed the mission was worth the risk?” Coulson asked, the slightest change visible in his expression as his eyebrows drew together a fraction.   
_Okay, SuitMan is definitely testing me. I’m sure as hell not going to fail._  
“Of course, sir.” Clint answered easily.   
     “And where did I fit into this plan? Coulson asked with a resigned tone. “I was on the mission too.”  
     “Well if we both took the jump and didn’t make it, there would be no chance of success. Whereas if I made the jump and was unsuccessful, at least it would have provided enough distraction for you to complete the objective.” Clint explained, flexing and tensing his arm under the blood pressure cuff that was strapped tightly to his bicep. “But I landed the jump and completed the mission with little consequence, so it’s fine right?”  
There was no reaction from the SuitMan for far too long. Clint couldn’t see why he would be in trouble, he had still completed the mission as asked. He wondered how badly he had done for SuitMan to be so annoyed.  
     “Barton.” Coulson said flatly. “My office. Now.”  
  
Clint didn’t let his surprise show, ignoring the worry that immediately tried to claw its way up his throat. He glanced at the nurse who was currently cleaning a graze on his leg, wondering if SuitMan would expect him to forgo the rest of his medical treatment and accompany him immediately. Staying until the nurse was done seemed almost counterproductive, but maybe that’s how things were done here...  
     “Sir?” he asked uneasily, keeping the quaver out of his voice as he tried desperately to analyse the situation and figure out _what the hell is going on._  
Coulson finally moved from his resolute stance, head turning so he could follow Clint’s gaze. Looking down at the injury, then back to the archers face. He sighed.  
     “When you’re done here. No earlier, no later,” he amended, casting a final glance over him before turning on his heel and exiting the room as quietly as he had entered it.   
  
_Damn._

 

* * *

 

  
  
Clint hated disappointing people. Upsetting someone was one thing. Hurting them was another. But being a  _disappointment_  was something he had never coped well with. His first mission with SHIELD, and he had already failed to meet his handlers expectations. Even worse was that he wasn't even aware of what he had done wrong, so wasn't able to apologise his way back into the good books. He couldn’t let himself stay in such low regard. He had to fix the situation. Whatever it took.  
  
  
He knew there was no point putting off the inevitable, so the moment he was cleared from medical he went straight upstairs to SuitMan’s office. He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He knew full well that Coulson was strict and disciplined, but he had never seen him angry before. Clint took a breathe and knocked, bracing himself for whatever was to come.

  
_[ The first time the RingMaster had called him to his caravan without his brother, Clint didn’t even realise how much trouble he was in until long after the door had closed behind him ]_

  
“Come in.” SuitMan’s voice was surprisingly less curt than before; an odd tone that Clint had never heard, but still entirely unreadable.   
He stepped into the room and shut the door quietly behind him. He kept his eyes on the floor as he entered the silent office.  

 

_[ The carnival music was still playing from the tent a few metres away. "How else are you going to improve?" The crowd's were still laughing jovially."I don't have time for people like you, so get it right, or get out!" None of them knew what happened once the show was over. ]_

 

Clint considered the options; the chair was too close to the desk, too constricting, but he was still slightly lightheaded and wasn’t sure he would be able to stand straight for too long. The chair didn't have arms that he could lean on, and the walls were too white, too clean. He lowered himself to his knees, and prepared for the yelling to begin.   
     “The chair is over here,” SuitMan said slowly, not moving from where he was, leaning against his desk.  
Clint clenched his teeth slightly. He had no idea how SuitMan was going to react to whatever Clint had done wrong, so he was gonna keep his distance for as long as possible.   
     “Barton.” Coulson spoke again, and Clint couldn’t quire recognise wether his voice was tinted with something. ~~_Worry?_~~ _Impatience._  “What are you doing?’  
_Just get it over with. I can’t look you in the eye until we’re even._  
     “Clint?” SuitMan’s softer tone was almost jarring.  _Don’t look up._  
     “Sir.” Clint said uneasily, keeping his muscles relaxed no matter how tense he was feeling. Tight muscles hurt more when impacted.  
Careful steps made their way over, the tips of well polished shoes edging into his sight.  

  
{  _His fathers stumbling footsteps. The clink of an empty bottle hitting the tiles. Leather boots in his vision. Bloodied fists }_  
       
     “Clint? Talk to me.” Coulson said quietly, his voice suddenly louder and so much closer. He dropped to one knee in front of him, bending just low enough to look under Clint’s bent head.  
  
{ _“You better start talking.” Stale breath, cold hands. "Tell me what you did, boy!” }_  
  
“Are you in pain, Barton? Did you leave medical before you were cleared?” The voice was surprising soft; not the criticism he had expected. It took everything in him not to let the shock creep into his eyes when he finally looked up.  
     “What? No it’s- I’m…” He blinked rapidly, taking a breath and starting again. “I told you, it doesn’t hurt much yet.”  
SuitMan just stared at him, grey eyes unreadable. He placed a light hand on Clint’s shoulder, barely touching him, never averting his inquiring gaze.  
     “Are you okay?” Coulson paused, then added quietly, “Not physically. I have your report about that."  
     “Peachy,” Clint mumbled, trying to ignore warm comfort that was coming from the hand on his shoulder.   
     “Can you get up?” SuitMan asked quietly.  
     “Yes, sir.” Clint let the hand fall from his shoulder as he got to his feet, ignoring the cracking his spine made or the pale specks at the edges of his vision.  
     “Do you want to take a seat?” Coulson stood slowly, carefully.

Clint groaned inwardly. _Why is he giving me a choice?_  Orders were easy. Choices were messy. He took the easy out and nodded, pulling the chair out and angling it slightly so that when he sat, he could still easily bolt for the door. Just incase. He absolutely _hated_  not knowing what was coming next.   
     “Do you know why you’re here?” Coulson asked, taking a seat at the other side of the desk.   
     “Because you asked me to be.” Clint ground out. SuitMan sighed.  
     “Do you know _why_  I asked you to come here?” Coulson asked, but the potential irritation was absent from his voice.   
     “Because I did something wrong.” Clint stated blankly, not allowing his confusion to taint his voice.  
     “I would have to say there been a lack of understanding.” SuitMan frowned.  
     “On whose behalf?” Clint asked warily, thinking back and analysing each of his actions over the last 24hours.  _Did I misinterpret the mission? Was there something else I was supposed to do before going to medical?_  
     “Mine.” Coulson answered with a slight shrug. “I don’t understand why you continued a mission that high risk. Nor do I understand why you thought it was best for you to jump first. Actually, I don’t get why you thought it was best to jump at all.” His tone was more concerned than anything else, yet it still sounded criticising.   
Clint’s brown furrowed at SuitMan’s explanation, unsure of what he had done wrong.  
     “It was the quickest way to complete the objective.” He stammered.  
     “But the objective was too dangerous to be completed,” SuitMan countered, his expression creasing.  
     “Danger is part of the job… besides, I completed it fine.” _Right? He hadn’t gotten anything wrong, had he?_  
“Yes, but there’s a line, Clint.” Coulson sighed again, shaking his head slightly. “There’s always a risk with this job, yes, but the mission isn’t always worth it. It certainly wasn’t worth the risk you took today.”  
  
_Ohhhh._ Clint paused, wondering how far over the line he had gone. He hadn’t thought the risk was too substantial…  
     “Okay so I screwed up, I’ll take my punishment, it won’t happen again, and we’re good, yeah?” Clint hurried his words, wanting this to be over so he could get out of here.  
     “Punishment?” SuitMan repeated emptily. _The hell kind of game is he playing at?_  
     “Well obviously there’s gotta be something, otherwise you wouldn’t have moved this conversation to a private office.” Clint said tiredly, keeping his eyes averted, but still noticing the stiffness in SuitMan’s shoulders.  
     “Is that what you were expecting to happen?” Coulson asked slowly, his voice carefully paced. Clint tilted his head slightly, still not managing to get a read on him. He cleared his throat, a little uneasy.  
     “Well I certainly wasn’t expecting as many questions, I’ll give you that. What is this - psychological torture?” Funny how he always retreated to humour as his first defence mechanism.   
     “Clint." SuitMan’s tone hardened and Clint’s gaze snapped back up to meet his. "What were you expecting?  
     “Jeez, I don’t know!” He spat defensively, hating how easily Coulson was worming beneath his skin. “A backhand if I was lucky, and a whole lot of yelling. You went so damn silent out there I thought you wanted to kill me!”

  
     “I don’t want to kill you, Clint.” Coulson said quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you, or yell at you.”  
     “Why the hell not??” Clint grumbled, shrinking into himself slightly. Somehow quiet Coulson was even scarier than the prospect of angry SuitMan. “I crossed the line, I went too far. It’s only fair.”  
     “Yes, you did go too far. I spent hours alone wondering if you’d wake up, and if I’d ever see you again and in what state.” Coulson replied firmly. “I didn’t want to see my best agent hurt, and I still don’t.”  
  
Clint stared at him, trying to process what he’d said. _Coulson was worried about me?_  He cleared his throat, still caught on what to say.  
     “…best agent?” He asked meekly, certain it was some kind of joke, but Coulson nodded.  
     “Shocker, isn’t it. I’ve known what you’re capable of for ages, Barton, but I wasn’t allowed to bring you in for a while. However, we all knew you’d be a good agent, and within minutes of your first mission, you’d proved that. The end of the mission was less than ideal, granted, but you completed the objective in record time. As much as I hate to say it, you did extremely well, even if your methods are frowned upon. But that’s not even my point, Clint. You could be the shittiest agent on the block, but your life still isn’t worth risking the way you did today.”  
     “But I completed the mission, and I came out fine.” Clint frowned, still not sure what he had done wrong. “I don’t get what the whole deal is. Am I in trouble or not?”  
     “You could have died, Barton.” SuitMan pointed out with a sigh. “I asked you to come here because you need to know that’s not a risk you’re allowed to take.”  
     “Then how do you expect me to ever accomplish anything?” This was frustrating him. He still didn’t believe he was getting let off the hook this easily, there had to be something else going on that he didn’t know yet.  _Why's Coulson making such a fuss about it?_  
     “I expect you to not almost die!” SuitMan argued, not raising his voice, but the sharpness in his tone was strikingly clear. “You are worth more than a mission, Clint. You can stop a mission at any stage if it’s not feasible to complete it safely. Your life has value, and keeping you alive is more important than accomplishing anything.” Coulson leaned back in his chair with a sigh.   
     “Right,” Clint nodded, agreeing simply for the sake of ending the conversation. SuitMan’s words were contradicting everything he knew and it really wasn’t sitting so well with him.   
  
  
After a few moments of watchful silence, his handler spoke again.  
     “Tell me, what do you think the priorities should be?”  
     “Mission. Civilian Bystanders. Superiors. Self.” Clint replied warily, shifting uncomfortably under the heavy stare.  
     “And why do you think that?” SuitMan pressed.  
Clint shrugged noncommittally, shuffling his feet slightly against the carpet.  
     “Clint?” Coulson asked again, patiently.   
     “Guess I’m just accustomed to being at the bottom of the food chain.” Clint muttered, inspecting the bandage around his wrist and picking at the edge of it.  
     “Your life has value. Just as much as mine. Just as much as the ‘ _superiors’_  in the offices ten floors up.” Coulson explained, straightening his tie.  
     “Whatever,” Clint sighed. He was really done with this discussion. He sure as hell knew he wasn’t as important as any of the Suits - he was just the newbie recruit with decent aim who was good at following orders.   
Coulson ran a hand through his perfect hair, sitting forward again slightly. “You have skills like no one else on the planet. You’re unique and irreplaceable, can’t you understand that?”  
Clint blinked. _Why’s he trying to make me feel better? Is something bad about to happen?_ He just wanted out.  
     “Is that all, sir?” Clint asked politely, really hoping to be dismissed.  
     “My name is _Phil.”_ Coulson corrected. “Screw protocol, I might be your handler but I am in no way your superior, I just have more experience in some fields.” He paused, watching Clint closely. “That doesn’t mean that if I say _'Barton, don’t fucking jump'_  you can just ignore me.”  
He was totally _not ever_  going to call SuitMan ‘Phil.’ It was way too.. normal.  
     “Technically it was more of a fall than a jump.” Clint countered halfheartedly.  
     “It was still unsafe and dangerous and far too risky,” countered Coulson, folding his arms.   
     “Okay but whinging about it won’t change what I did. I don’t regret it, it worked.” Clint mimicked him, crossing his own arms.  
     “Then what the hell  _will_ make you regret it?” SuitMan asked cooly.  
Clint drew a sharp breath, but didn’t let his discomfort show. That wasn’t a question he wanted answered.  
     “Are we done here, Coulson, or do you want to find out for yourself?”  
     “No, Barton, No!” Coulson dragged a hand across his face. “We are damn well not done here. Not till I get you to understand what I’m saying.”  
  
_Damn._  Clint’s shoulders dropped slightly in defeat. Coulson straightened his already straight tie.  
     “Maybe our issue here is that you have no basis on which to trust me. I get that. You hardly know anything about me, so fair enough that you might question my intentions.”   
     “I know enough,” Clint countered. It was a lie. He hardly knew anything about the man before him, and even if he did, it wouldn’t make him trust him. “You wear a suit all the time, wouldn’t be surprised if you sleep in it hanging upside down from the ceiling. You’ve been tracking me since May, at least. You had an earpiece in when you came to talk to me, but turned it off when guns got involved, so evidently you aren’t that adverse to taking risks yourself.”  
A faint flicker of a smile crossed Coulson’s expression, disappearing just as quickly.      
     “I was born in Wisconsin. I used to play baseball. SHIELD recruited me straight out of college. My car’s name is Lola, and if you scratch her you will die a painful death. I have a middle name, but I hate it. I am generally an all around average Joe in pretty much everything. Nothing special whatsoever. Just as human as the rest of us.” Coulson shrugged challengingly. “So, who’s really worth more? Me, or the perfect marksman?”  
     “Probably the guy who graduated high school and went to college.” Clint replied bluntly, processing what SuitMan had said. He named his car _Lola?_  
     “Seriously?” Coulson frowned. “Okay, okay, fine. Talk me through the logic then, I need to understand whats going on in your head.”  
     “I’m just the juvie who knows some circus tricks and isn’t trusted by anyone.” Clint muttered, slightly bitterly. “You have like brains and experience and respect and stuff.”  
     “You’re just as intelligent, if not more so. Respect comes with time, and maybe a little less cockiness. You have potential, Barton. But irrespective of your position in this organisation, your life is of value. Even if you fail a mission. You could be an old homeless man on the streets, or a young genius CEO, but your life is still important. That’s the whole ethos of SHIELD.”  
     “Right… so it’s fine then?” Clint blinked at him blankly.   
     “It’s not fine until I know you won’t endanger your life like that again,” Phil said firmly, looking Clint in the eye.  
     “I won’t do it again,” he replied easily. _I’d like to thank the Academy…_  
 “I don’t believe you.” SuitMan countered.   
     “Then we finally agree on something.” Clint sighed.   
     “Sorry, but you aren’t leaving this office until I’m assured that you’ll keep yourself relatively safe.”  
     “Guess I’m sleeping here then. Oh, wait - I don’t sleep.” Clint rubbed a hand over his face, getting frustrated with the situation. He found himself almost wishing it had gone differently, because even if it was less pleasant, at least it would be over by now and he could sulk back to some dark corner of the building…  
     “Don’t think I’m letting that little comment go amiss either,” Coulson straightened up, fixing him with a pointed stare. “ We are _so_  coming back to that.”  
     “You know,” Clint grumbled, crossing his arms with a _huff._  “when I agreed to join SHIELD, I thought it was a job - not a daycare. Oh wait - did I say I agreed? Hmm, I still don’t actually remember doing that.”  
     “If you don’t want to be here, Clint, you can leave.” Coulson said steadily. “I won’t force you to stay if you don’t want to.”  
     “I’ve put up with worse to keep a roof over my head.” Clint mumbled. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be here. He just wanted to know why he was brought here in the first place.  
     “You know when I saved you from being such an idiot,” Coulson said gently, “I don’t know what you want, from any of this, but you can’t make me regret that.”  
Clint looked up at him, watching closely for any sign of emotion behind those grey eyes.   
     “Why’d you do it?” Clint questioned softly.  
     “Because you were worth saving. And you still are.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil keeps straightening his tie... eventually it's going to be straighter than he is. 
> 
> (COUGHforeshadowingCOUGH)


	3. it's gonna be a glorious day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Coulson are on a mission, and Clint can tell that his handler is worried about something. He's determined to find out what it is, and isn't going to let up until he can make the sad man smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a chapter for all the poor souls who have to go back to school this week. I'm laughing at you from Australia xx

Clint was not an emotional person. That being said, he wasn’t all too bad at acting. Which meant that he could tell when someone else was faking.  
Throughout the morning, Coulson’s frown had deepened into a SuitMan Frown (TM), and Clint was going to fix it.

 

He tipped backwards off the branch he was sitting on, swinging down so that his face was hanging upside down, right in front of SuitMan’s.  
     “What’s wrong?” He asked plainly, having never learned the skill of tactful conversation.  
Coulson didn’t even blink, using the back of his hand to nudge Clint’s head to the side slightly, just enough to regain his view of the road they were supposed to be watching. Clint frowned, swinging himself back in front of SuitMan to give him a pointed (upside down) stare.  
     “What are you being all quiet and weird?”  
     “It’s called 'paying attention to the mission,’ you should try it some time.” Coulson replied simply, prodding Clint’s forehead and causing him to lose his balance, toppling to the floor.  
     “Didn’t you say a few weeks ago that we’re more important than a mission?” Clint spoke into the dirt, his words muffled, before dragging himself to his feet.  
     “Don’t use my words against me,” SuitMan tutted. “Now focus.”  
     “You always do it to me. It’s only fair,” Clint mumbled, purposefully not dusting himself off to see how long SuitMan could resist making a comment on it. He was prissy like that. Besides, it would be a good indication of the mood SuitMan was in, which Clint didn’t think was an especially good one today.  
To his utter horror, a whole three minutes passed and Coulson still hadn’t noticed. Something was seriously wrong. Clint stepped over to stand beside his handler, brushing his shoulder ever so slightly against Coulson’s arm so that the smallest speck of dirt settled on his pristine suit.  
SuitMan sighed slightly, inaudible and unnoticeable except for the slightest drop in his shoulders.  
     “Barton,” he said dryly, “I just had this dry cleaned.”  
Clint shrugged. “I just put my uniform through the wash, but did you care about that when you made me fall out of a tree? Noooo, of course not.”  
     “You shouldn’t have been in the tree in the first place,” SuitMan replied with a note of barely withheld annoyance. “Now stop being distracting, please.”  
     “So you admit that I’m distracting? Good, it’s nice to know I’m making progress.” Clint grinned. He was tempted to get back in the tree, after all it was easier to watch the road from a higher vantage point, but he didn’t want Coulson getting irritated.

SuitMan silently pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, typing in the passcode and passing it wordlessly to Clint, eyes fixed on the road the whole time. Clint took the phone suspiciously.  
     “Do you want my number or what? I’m taken, I have my bow. But I’m flattered that you w-“  
     “Open the dictionary,” Coulson interrupted blandly, “and find a definition for the word ‘stealthy.’ You evidently don’t understand the concept.”  
Clint gaped at him, wide eyed. _I just got burned by my handler._  
      “Wow, that was a low blow. It’s not even like you’re stealthy. I saw you watching me for months.” He said, his sentences broken up between weird faces as he took a series of bad photos on the phone.  
SuitMan finally broke from his statue like stance, taking his phone back with a scowl.  
     “Well obviously. You were supposed to see me. I needed to find out how you would react.”  
Clint pouted, a playful glint in his eyes. He knew he was still far from riling Coulson up, but he wanted to find out what was bothering him. Even if it took pissing him off to break him enough to admit it.  
     “We are so coming back to that,” he said, repeating SuitMan’s words from a couple of months ago. “But seriously? It sounds like you were doing the whole lovesick teenager thing, hoping to catch their crush’s eye and then looking away to get attention.”  
SuitMan almost reacted. _Almost_.  
     “We always tail people before recruiting them to see how they react to being followed. It’s an important part of the job to be able to remain calm and not make rash decisions without justification.” SuitMan replied blandly.  
     “Ah. I have an unfortunate sinking feeling that Russian Roulette sits comfortably under the category of ‘rash decisions,’ doesn’t it?” Clint sighed, using the toe of his boot to draw little targets in the dirt at their feet, each movement causing a slight puff of dust to rise and lick at the bottom of their pants. “Oh well, I suppose is return for me disappointing you, you’re just going to disappoint me and continue to be an absolute bore.” _Maybe reverse psychology will make him open up…_  
     “Nothing about your actions sits comfortable with me, Barton.” SuitMan diverted, eyes still fixed, unmoving, on the road.  
     “Aw, do I scare you?” Clint smirked to himself. “Thats okay, I scare most normal, dull, boring people.” He leant forward slowly, infringing more and more on SuitMan’s view of the road.  
     “Barton. Mission.” Coulson ushered him out of the way, never losing his focus.  
     “Coulson. Hi!” Clint replied. “C’mon, whats up? You’re never this… _agenty_.”  
     “Yet somehow you’re always this irritating.” Coulson remarked softly.  
     “What won’t you tell me?” Clint pressed, knowing it had to be something serious for it to be affecting someone as unnaffectable as SuitMan.  
     “If it was something you needed to be aware of, I would have told you already.” Coulson replied simply.  
     “You don’t seem to think I need to be aware of a lot of things, and I tend to disagree with most of them.” Clint argued.  
     “It doesn’t effect you.” Coulson said warily.  
     “Actually, it kinda does. Because it’s totally jeopardising this mission. You’re distracted and that means I’m distracted and-“  
     “I’m only distracted because you won’t stop talking.” SuitMan frowned.  
     “Well I’m only talking because you won’t talk and tell me what’s going on.”  
     “Why’s it so important to you? Can’t we just get this mission done?” Coulson sighed.  
     “Because I have to put up with you being all antsy and miserable. And it sucks.”  
     “I’m not antsy or miserable.” SuitMan corrected patiently. “I’m contemplating.”  
     “Contemplating what?” Clint practically whined. He was being a drama queen, and it was almost working.  
     “Why are you so insistent on knowing? It’s really not important, Barton.” He pursed his lips, eyebrows creasing together. “What’s it to you?"  
      “If it wasn’t important, you wouldn’t not tell me!” Clint argued, raising his hands in exasperation. _Wow okay there were waaayy too many negatives in that sentence._  
     “It’s to do with work, Barton. I’m not authorised to tell you.” Coulson frowned slightly, “I apologise for allowing my mood to affect you, I will try not to let my thoughts distract me any further.”  
     “You can’t just not let it distract you, because it’s already distracted you. And now it’s distracting me. And we both know that when I’m distracted, you can’t just un-distract me. So if you don’t relieve my curiosity, you will have to deal with me being as irritating as an over caffeinated toddler… until extraction, in four hours.”

SuitMan stared emptily across the road for a few moments, completely still. It didn’t even look like he was breathing. _Maybe he isn’t…_ Clint wondered how long he could hold his breath.  
     “Are you willing to risk _The Wrath Of Fury_ for the sake of finding out an insignificant piece of information?” Coulson eventually asked, giving Clint a sarcastic raise of his eyebrow.  
     “Do you seriously have to ask?” He deadpanned back, earning a flicker of something that was almost a reaction.  
     “You aren’t considering saying yes, are you?” SuitMan asked very slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Reckless is one thing, but that’s sheer stupidity. The Director will _lobotomise_ you. _With a crayon_.”

 _Eek, that was not a mental image he needed in his life. Death by Jazzberry Jam Purple. Or maybe Granny Smith Apple Green. Or the white crayon, finally do something useful with it…_  
Clint couldn’t help but smirk slightly at finally managing to crack into Coulson’s seemingly unbreakable tolerance of everything.  
     “You don’t seriously think I’m going to change my answer?” Clint shrugged, “I’ll take whatever shit Fury can throw at me, okay, so please just tell me what’s going on.”  
Coulson shut his eyes for a second and took a breath before fixing Clint with a pained stare.  
     “You just made the whole situation a whole lot worse, I’ll have you know."  
Any lightness in Clint’s expression disappeared as a deep frown curved his lips.  
     “If by saying that, I had an affect on the situation… that implies I was a contributing factor to begin with.” He observed coldly. “Tell me what it is, Coulson.”  
     “Clint, I’m not-” he sighed again. “Fine. I disagreed with a mission Fury assigned you to for early next year, due to it’s nature. He didn’t change his decision, but suggested that if I want to avoid an adverse result, to ensure that things change between now and then…”  
Clint kept his eyes focussed on his handler, despite actually watching the road in his peripheral vision. He had mission to focus on, after all. Not like he never learned how to multitask.  
     “What does he think is going to change?” Clint asked slowly. “What is the mission?”  
     “There’s a highly volatile foreign operative the we have been aware of for a while. We have intel that this operative is going to be attempting a fairly risky mission of their own next year, and it poses an opportunity to take them out of the equation.” Coulson explained carefully. “Fury wants you to do it. We both know you could, you’re definitely capable enough. That’s not what I’m annoyed about. Fury didn’t pick you for your skills. He picked you because he knew no one else would be reckless enough to take the mission.  
      “Your risk taking behaviour is no mystery to any of us,” Coulson continued with a frown, “however I was hoping that with time it would… lessen. Fury is adamant that you should take this mission, and the only way I can see it succeeding without you dying is if I can manage to make you see some sense and develop self-preservation skills between now and then.” He paused again, watching Clint with an odd look. “I had hoped that over the past month’s you have been working with me, some progress had been made. However your recent statement suggests otherwise.”

_Oh._

 

_Well shit._

 

 _SuitMan had been acting so strange because he was worried about… this._  
_He was worried about me._

That was not something he wanted to think about in great depth. He stashed that though in the part of his brain labelled: ‘ _NOPE_.’

 

 _But if Fury wants me to take the mission… and I could successfully complete it… then what’s the problem?_  
     “You always tell me not to disobey my superior officers,” Clint pointed out, trying to give Coulson a reassuring smile and failing miserably.  
     “Missions are always optional. Yes, you should follow orders. But you shouldn’t accept missions which have orders you can not or should not comply with.”  
Clint sighed, turning back to give the road his full attention. It was easier when they were both focussed out there, instead of focussing on each other. They knew, of course, that the car they were waiting for wasn’t expected for another ninety minutes. But it served as a valid excuse to avoid eye contact.  
     “So why are you getting in trouble over this? I’ll make the decision when it comes down to it, there’s a lot of time between then and now.” Clint asked quietly.  
     “Because I get this awful feeling that even if it was almost certain you wouldn’t come back from a mission, you’d still take it, just to avoid having to say no.” SuitMan said bluntly, “I don’t want anything happening to you on my watch.”  
Clint swallowed, and gnawed on his inner lip as he formulated a response.  
     “Would it make you feel any better if I told you that I wouldn’t do that?” He asked slowly, carefully checking his words to ensure he wasn’t making any promises or comments.Just a simple enquiry.  
     “Not if I knew it was a lie,” Coulson’s reply had no disappointment or accusation in the tone, but it still made Clint’s stomach squirm.  
     “Would you feel better if I thought over the risks and the benefits of every mission and made a rational decision about wether or not I would take it?” He tried, hating how well Coulson seemed to read him.  
      “Barton.” The other man sighed. _He does that a lot._ “You literally expressed glee when I said that your rash decisions worry me. Don’t try and convince me of anything you don’t believe for yourself.”  
     “It’s almost like even though you stalked me for months, gave me a psych evaluation, and work with me everyday, you still didn’t predict how I would react to something like this.” Clint grumbled sarcastically.  
     “I’m not worried about how you react, Clint. It’s your lack of a reaction that disturbs me.”

 _Ah. Well. That’s something I can’t really fix. I don’t know why- oh fuck, of course I know why I don’t care about my life in the face of danger. But I certainly don’t want to have that conversation with disapproving SuitMan…_  
     “Well how do I get you to stop worrying over it then?” Clint asked, then added quickly, “Because if I don’t, you’re worrying is going to distract me throughout the whole mission.”  
     “You don’t,” SuitMan replied curtly, allowing his agent face to fall back into place. “You asked, I answered. Now let’s drop it and focus on the mission again.”

 _I never stopped focusing, jeez._  
    “You know,” Clint remarked wistfully after a few moments, “one day, you and I are going to have a mission where we won’t disagree on anything.”  
     “Let me guess, “ Coulson replied wryly, “our mission will go exactly to plan, and you won’t even have to go to medical afterwards? Next you’ll be telling me you want to give up caffeine for your cardiac health.”  
     “Yup,” Clint replied, popping the ‘p’ sound. “Well, not the coffee part. Ever. But the perfect mission. You’ll tell me you like the way I work, and I’ll tell you that I know your agenty exterior hides a giant fluffy idiot underneath but your secret is safe with me. And the Director will give us both a raise."  
     “Did you just call me an idiot?” Coulson narrowed his eyes, slight surprise lacing his tone. “Can you even comprehend how incredibly distracting you are?”  
     “Hey, I never stopped watching the road, so don’t tell me about distracting.” Clint grinned smugly.  
     “My point exactly, your presence inhibits my ability to function by being so insistently annoying.” Coulson grumbled lightly.  
     “Aw, c’mon, your life would be practically  _ennuyeuse*_ , without me around,” Clint countered with a mischievous smirk. _Heh, take that, smarty._  
_“Tu me gonfles**.”_ Coulson replied sharply, albeit it with a raised eyebrow.  
_Damn, he knows French too. Of course he knows French, SuitMan knows everything._  
     “My life is plenty interesting, thank you very much. Now for the last time, would you please stop distracting me.”  
Clint huffed, annoyed that he couldn’t get even a smile out of the miserable man. “Where would the fun be in that?”  
     “We’re working Barton. It’s not supposed to be fun. You can go to the weapons range and play with your toys once the mission is over.”  
     “But Coulsooonnn,” Clint complained. “The weapons range is boring when I’m not allowed live targets or Russian Roulette. There’s no thrill.”  
     “Buy a budgie.” Coulson muttered.  
     “How the fuck is a budgie thrilling?” Clint mumbled in disappointment. “Oh, no. No, _no_. Don’t you dare say I can use it as a moving target, I don’t kill my own kind, jeez.”  
     “Fine, then, find something else to amuse yourself. Fill all the air fresheners with glitter. Explore the air vents for all I care. Do whatever pleases you after the mission is over.” SuitMan said, still completely devoid of emotion.  
     “You do realise you just gave me express permission to sit in the ceiling right above your office.” Clint grinned. He was never going to let that go.  
     “I can realise toxins into the air supply.”  
     “Do you really hate me that much?” Clint pouted, faking upset. He was faking it. _He was totally completely not even slightly upset by the possibility that Coulson might want him dead._ Completely faking.  
     “No,” SuitMan replied quickly, “but I do hate cockroaches. And you will undoubtedly eat food in the vents and leave crumbs everywhere, and then there will be a pest problem.”

 _Well he wasn’t wrong…_  
“I’d really like to dispute that… but I can’t.” Clint admitted.

Coulson just hummed in affirmation, still showing no visible reaction to their conversation. Not even a small smirk, or a relaxing of his always tense jaw. He just continued staring out at the road as though the air itself was offending him.

 

Silence passed between them until Clint finally voiced his thoughts.  
     “Hey, Agent, do you have a smile?”  
     “What do you even mean, Barton?” SuitMan asked blankly in reply.  
     “Well, can you smile?” Clint repeated, turning to look at him. It wasn’t a request, just an honest question. Although if Coulson were to turn and smile at him he sure wouldn’t complain.  
     “I heard you the first time, but I still don’t comprehend what you are asking. A smile isn’t something one can physically posses.”  
     “Okay but I’ve never seen you actually smile,” Clint explained, “so I’m not altogether convinced that you even have the capability. So I’m asking if you physically can.”  
     “Well obviously,” Coulson grunted. “I have perfected my AgentSmile which scares the younger recruits. It’s quite useful.”  
     “No, that’s not what I mean. Anyone can do a fake smile. I mean a real one. Not because it suits the situation, but because you actually want to and can’t stop your body from doing it.”  
SuitMan arched an eyebrow, tilting his face the tiniest fraction toward Clint, so that he could see him better in his peripheral vision, eyes still focused on the road.  
     “Well, if I’m ever presented with a situation in which I’m so overly joyous that I feel a need to express it, I’ll let you know.” Coulson said disinterestedly.  
_Well that sounds promising._ Clint thought sarcastically, wishing their target would just drive past already.  
     “So… not today then?” Clint sighed, and he totally wasn’t disappointed.  
     “We’re working,” SuitMan reminded him, “I wouldn’t expect to find it enjoyable."  
Clint shrugged, mumbling, “Maybe on a good day.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ennuyeuse = boring [French]
> 
> **tu me gonfles = you bother me [French]


	4. pull me out of the aircrash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on the flight back from a successful mission, Clint’s sleep is disturbed by unwelcome memories

Clint was surprised the mission had gone so well. It hadn't been a particularly complex objective, but he wasn't in the best state, physically or mentally. Replacing each hour of missed sleep with a cup of coffee isn’t so effective when it’s been three days since you’ve slept… He blinked wearily as he followed his handler to the jet. He'd nearly missed when he fired the grappling arrow, because he vision was blurring. He'd forgotten to reply to SuitMan several times because all he could hear was buzzing and he wasn't focussed enough on reading his lips.

_This isn't good..._  
He shook himself out of his thoughts when they reached the aircraft, nodding to the pilot as he climbed past the cockpit, and smiling at Coulson when he said something to him. Probably just a 'well done,' or something.   
  
Sitting down across from his handler,  he pulled on his seatbelt as SuitMan slid a bunch of files out of his briefcase and began filling in the paperwork for the mission. They'd have to debrief with Fury once they got back to the base, and then he could either have another coffee or attempt to sleep.  
  
Coffee sounded much more inviting.  
  
He pushed his head back against the headrest as the jet took off, tapping his foot on the floor and drumming his fingers on his knee. Not that he was restless, he often had extra adrenaline after a mission, but he wasn't fidgeting to burn off extra energy. He was keeping his limbs occupied so he wouldn't fall asleep.   
  
He was vaguely aware of SuitMan saying something to him ( _I should probably reply to that..._ ) so looked over to his handler. _Don't say something dumb, don't say something dumb..._  
     "Huh?" _Good one, idiot._  
Coulson's brow furrowed, and he blinked once. "I asked if you received any injuries on the mission that you hadn't yet told me about."   
     "Oh, nope," Clint assured him, and Coulson watched him for a split second before nodding and returning to his paperwork.   
  
Clint dialled down the volume on his hearing aids to drown out the hum of the engines and the rhythmic scratching of SuitMan's pen, letting out an exhausted breath, but still fighting to keep his eyes open.   
_Don't fall asleep. Don't drift off. Don't even blink._  
It was times like this he wished they flew commercial. Yeah there would be crying babies and nosy tourists, but at least there would be movies and magazines to keep him distracted. At the very least he could just analyse the people around him to keep his brain occupied. But in the small SHIELD jet, there wasn't even anything to look at. Not to mention, the flight was severely lacking in air hostesses that brought around snacks.   


* * *

  
  
Less than an hour into a five hour flight, and he was already bored. He sighed, reclining his chair and finding himself tumbling backwards, landing with a soft thump on damp grass. He looked up, gut clenching at the familiar figure looming above him.   
     "Barney?" he heard himself asking, "what happened to your face?"   
Bloodied lips broke into a toothy grin, but the smile didn't reach his brothers bruised eyes.   
     "Got caught stealing, but s'alright, got away with the goods." Barney dropped a bag of food on the ground, then flopped down to sit beside him. "Dig in, spud."   
He glanced across the paddock toward a trail of brightly coloured caravans, trundling slowly along the dirt road.  As they got closer a sick feeling began to grow in his stomach.   
     "We could run away." He said, then froze. _No, no, no, that's not a good idea._  
     "We've already run away, dummy. That's why we're in the middle of nowhere eating stolen food." His brother said through a mouthful of bread.   
Clint tore his eyes away from the mesmerising vehicles, looking instead to the half eaten apple in his hand. _When did I get this? H_ e took another bite as his brother turned around to see what he had been staring at.   
     "Circus beats an orphanage any day. Let's go check it out." Barney grinned.  
_No way in hell!_

_"_ Alright," Clint found himself saying as he and his brother stood. He froze.  _Nope, not happening,_ and turned quickly, running in the opposite direction of the familiar caravans. He focussed on the ground beneath his feet as he put as much distance between him and them as possible. _I'm not letting them get to Barney again. I'm not letting them get to me._

He was shocked out of his thoughts when he crashed into his brothers back. He stopped, looking up in confusion and catching his breath. The two of them were standing by the side of the road as the intricately painted caravans passed in front of them. _No, no, anywhere but here._ His brother laughed beside him, oblivious to what they had just walked into. _Get away. Get the hell away._  
Clint cleared his throat uneasily. "We should go-"  
     "-with them! I was just thinking the same thing!" Barney interrupted.

_What? No!_  
     "Okay!" Clint said, then slammed a hand over his mouth.  _Shut up!_  
  
Barney grabbed his wrist and began running along the side of the road, dragging Clint behind him. They caught up with a trailer of hay, and firm hands slid beneath Clints shoulders, lifting him up and onto the vehicle.   
     "Barney, I don't-"  
     "Sshhh spud, we can't get caught." His brother whispered as he clambered in beside him, pulling some straw over them.   
     "Barney!" Clint said again, determined not to go through this hell all over again. "I don't like these people."  
The excitement fell from his brothers face, sad blue eyes boring into his.   
     "It'll be fine, buddy. We'll be okay." Barney sighed. 

     "But what if it's not?" Clint pressed, determined to make his brother aware of what was waiting for them.

     "Don't worry so much, now hush!" His brother grumbled, nudging him through the hay.  
  
Clint screwed his eyes shut and tried to figure out what was on. He could hear someone breathing close to him... _His brother._ He was being jostled about slightly - _probably by the bumpy road._ And there was some kind of repetitive scratching noise... _Must be the hay._ But there was another noise too, that he couldn't place. Something like an engine - a large engine...  
  
     " _Clint_?" The concern in the voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

He peered at his brother through the hay, realising they had stopped moving. The dark trees above them were stationary, and he couldn't feel any movement. _The sun has gone down? How long were we driving for; we only just got in the trailer..._  
  
Voices approached and the two brothers froze in place, holding their breath. Unseen hands grabbed at them and dragged them out onto the road. They stumble to their knees, looking up and the man towering over them.   
     "Ahh, fresh meat," the man crooned at them. It was too dark to see who he was, but Clint recognised the voice immediately. Chills went down his spine as the tall figure stepped forward into the light. He grinned down at them, lips stretching open to reveal fangs, his forked tongue flicking along black teeth. The scream was caught in Clint's throat as a clawed hand tightened around his wrist, hauling him to his feet.   
  
  
_Someone was calling his name but it didn’t sound like his brother, and no one else here knew who he was. It sounded kind of far away, but he didn’t have time to think about that right now._  
  
The hand loosened from his wrist, but before he could step away, the man had grabbed Clint by the throat, shoving him up against the trailer. It was raining, and Clint was freezing, but his skin burned beneath the familiar touch.   
     “Don’t get close,” the voice hissed in his ear, a warning. “You know what happens when you let people in. Didn’t I teach you not to trust anyone? Don’t you remember what I made your brother do?”  
_Please don’t make me remember that._ The hand dropped from his neck and he tried to catch his breath but his lungs weren’t working.  
_“Clint?”_  
“I’m fine, Barney.” He called feebly, turning back to his brother but the road was empty. “Barney?” He spun back to look at the trailers again but they were gone too, along with the man. “BARNEY?”  
      _“Clint?” the voice called again._  
He looked around frantically but couldn’t find anyone. Rain continued to drip down his skin and he dragged his hand across his face. Pulling it away, his palm was coated in blood, the thick red liquid dripping from it to puddles at his feet.  He stared at the floor in shock as more bloody droplets fell from the sky and soaked into the ground. A low chuckle sounded behind him, and he turned quickly to see who was there.   
     “I told you,” the man said, this time holding Barney by the throat. “I told you not to get close to people. I told you not to trust anyone. And now look at what you’ve done."  
     “I’m sorry,” the young vulnerable voice surprised him, and it took Clint a moment to realise it was him that had spoke.   
The man just stared at him. Dead eyes boring into his and staring straight through. The man released his hold and his brother tumbled his knees as he walked toward Clint, feet splashing in the bloodied rain.   
     “I’m sorry!” Clint said again, but he wasn’t sure which of the them he was speaking too, and he was shaking again, or maybe the ground was shaking, and the air was getting thinner and pressure was building in his head.  
     “I didn’t mean for any of it, I’m sorry.” He whimpered again, stepping backwards as the man approached him. _Not again._

He took another step backwards, his foot finding nothing but emptiness behind him and he stumbled backwards and he screwed his eyes shut as he fell,

But he didn’t hit the ground he just kept falling

and falling

              and falling

                             and then  


* * *

  
  
the rain stopped. He could still feel the ground shaking slightly, and someone was breathing way too close to him so he froze, pretending he was still asleep, tried to figure out where he was.   
     “Barton?” a concerned voice came from someone close by, and he recognised that voice. “Clint? Are you okay?”  
_No one calls me Barton… and no one ever asks if I'm okay… no one except-_

  
     “Coulson?” he asked uneasily, eyes still shut as he put together their surroundings. They were on a jet. Heading back from a mission. He wasn’t with the circus anymore. He was safe.  
     “I’m here, Clint. Are you back with me?”   
He opened his eyes carefully, the bright lights of the cabin coming into view and a set of grey eyes watching him closely and _woah okay nope thats a bit too close._ He shut his eyes again and reminded himself that Coulson wouldn’t hurt him. He’d said it himself after his first mission. And Clint trusted him. _Never trust anyone_.

He took a breath to steady himself.  
     “Yeah, yeah…” he answered meekly, nodding and letting out another relived breath when the man above him moved back out of his space.  
     "Are you alright?" Phil was talking evenly, concern not evident in his voice, but obvious in his eyes when Clint could finally look at them.   
Clint tried to response but his mouth was dry and there was still an uneasy feeling tickling the back of his throat.   
     "We're about forty minutes away from New York. You can skip the debriefing with Fury, I'll cover for you. I'm not letting you skip medical though, because quite honestly, you scared the shit out of me when your grapple slipped." Coulson continued on like nothing was out of the ordinary. Like he wasn't sitting across from an emotional wreck who couldn't even tell when he was dreaming.   
     "M'sorry." Clint mumbled softy, eyes scanning the cabin before coming to a rest on his shoes as he pulled his knees up to his chest. SuitMan watched him silently.   
"You said that," Coulson spoke carefully,  "a few times. But whatever it was you were sorry for, you don't have to apologise to me, Clint. Not for that."

 


	5. pull me out of the lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's being briefed on a mission, but it feels a lot more like he's a lamb being led to slaughter.

Drowning would be an awful way to go. Clint had often considered that, in his long hours spent pondering the inevitable. Out of all the ways to die, drowning would absolutely suck. Obviously there were much more _painful_ ways to go, bullet wounds, bleeding to death, burning, acid, being crushed by a heavy object, being flayed alive  
_etcetera etcetera_  
  
Pain was easy. Clint could deal with pain. It didn’t scare him as much as it once may have. It was the psychological torment of being trapped underwater, of being unable to breathe, that really freaked him out.   
  
_Drowning._    
  
Your instinct would be to move, but the more you move the more oxygen you require, and the more oxygen you require the more you want to just open your mouth and breathe in. You can’t yell for help, you might not even be able to see much, if the water was murky, and the moment you passed out, all the water would rush in and your body would go cold.  
Clint did not like the idea of drowning.  
  
But that’s what it felt like right now.  
Like drowning.  
But there was no water. Just words.

* * *

  
     "Barton, you're not answering me." A sharp voice cut into his thoughts, "Did you read over the mission parameters?" Fury repeated, leaning across the table and staring at him with his one eye.Clint focussed on one of the two others in the room, staring at the eye patch, rather than into the void of the seeing eye. He nodded. _Of course I’ve read it. (well, skim read it)._  
  
Fury leant back in his chair, his fingers moving to shift the pencils on his desk carefully, delicately, precisely. It was the only sound in the room and it sounded far too ominously terrifying. Pausing, he spoke again. "So you understand this mission requires precision unlike anything you've ever done, yes?"  
     "I'm always precise, sir." Clint consciously tried to tone down the defensive tone of his voice but it still sounded kind of snappy.  
     "Oh are you?" Fury raised an eyebrow challengingly "Precise in your paperwork and mission reports too?" There was a dangerous edge to this, giving a hint of a downward spiral to this conversation.  
His mind flickered to his handler behind him, who did most of his paperwork ( _to stop me from whining_ ), but he kept his eyes straight forward.   
     "I'm always precise. Sir." He repeated as firmly as he could, which admittedly wasn't very terribly convincing. But he kept the quaver out of his voice so that was a good start.  
     "Good," Fury replied, an unsettling smile on his face now. "Because I'll expect every detail of the mission in your report when you get back from it successfully. That won't be too much for you, will it?" His words came out far too quick to properly be digested.  
     "Yes Sir,"  _wait, "_ no Sir." Clint chewed the inside of his lip. _Where was this going?_  
     "You understand the target is one of extremely crucial importance. This mission could make or break many other SHIELD operatives' missions, including those in deep cover in extremely unstable positions. You're not afraid of responsibility are you?"  
_Um, yes. Terrified._  
_"_ No, sir." He replied, slightly slower this time. _This mission is a Big Deal, why is Fury giving it to such a low rank like me!?_  
     "Now I've highlighted to you just how important this is, you should also know that no one else can ever know how important this is. If you're taking it just for the bragging rights later, it won't be happening Agent Barton. Do you know why?" The man studied Clint's face carefully, in a way that felt like he could see far deeper than what we comfortable.  
_Bragging rights? As if._  
     "I don't know why, sir."  
     "Because this mission is never to be spoken of again. How good are you with secrets, Mr Barton? The target is high profile and if we reveal we can take that level down, we show our hand. So if you die on this mission, no one can know. If you succeed on this mission, no one can know. The whole month of January this year is never to be discussed again. If you decide not to take this mission, well, I still don't know how much I can trust your word, do I?"  
     "I assure you, Director, I am well accustomed to keeping secrets." Ok he was getting in deep here. _This sounds sketchy._  
     "Can I trust you, Barton?" Fury asked slowly, leaning over the desk again. "Then again, an untrustworthy man would say yes anyway."  
     "No." Barton replied evenly, knowing he was taking a risk. "You can't trust me, but you can trust my aim, and you can trust that I'll stay quiet."  
Fury smiled again, wider, and, surprising, more sincerely. "And how can I trust that you will follow orders as instructed?" His stare increased in intensity, as if the answer to this question was going to be the tipping point of this conversation.   
     "I follow objectives, sir. Field work is unpredictable, but I will do everything in my capability to complete the objective, and won't stop trying until it's finished." The conversation was tickling at his spine but he ignored the uneasy questions it was stirring up.  
  
Fury seemed half inclined to like that answer, but not entirely. Then again, everything about his body language was a contradiction. "And what if you disagree with the objective? After you've accepted. Can I trust that you'll do what I need you to do?"  
     "You can, sir." J _ust how important is this mission?_ “However from what I read, I see no aspects of the mission or objectives that I disagree with."  
The other man was silent for a moment. Then, an entire topic change.   
  
     "What's your stance on redemption, Mr Barton?" Not Agent. _Mr_.  
     "Redemption is for those who let themselves fall in the first place." Clint answered warily. W _hat_ _is he even talking about?_  
     "You imply that one cannot be redeemed if it was by other's doing that they fell," Fury noted.  
W _hat what what?_ Clint blinked once, keeping his facade neutral as he tried to figure out what the director wanted him to say.  
      "Everything is our own fault to an extent. Even in circumstances out of our control, we still allowed ourselves to be placed in that situation.”  
  
The silence stretched out for so long it became unbearably loud. Three people breathing the shallow air, as though cautious that their breath would give away their secrets. Two sets of eyes boring into him as he looked everywhere _except_  at the man across from him.   
  
     “If one is born into, say, an abusive home, is it then their fault to an extent that they were placed into that situation?" Fury asked neutrally, twisting his words to hit a nerve in Clint while still relating primarily to the mission.   
Clint shifted a fraction in his chair, muscles writhing beneath his skin as he fought to stay still.  
      "It becomes their responsibility to remove themselves from that situation, and if they fail to do that, then it's their fault they're still there."  
     "Barton," Fury said slowly, "Before you leave, I'd like you to actually read the file and remember this conversation." He slid a dossier across the table. It was the mission file, and the target information. He would re read the file, but the target’s bio was staying unopened, regardless of what Fury asked of him.  
     "Yes sir.”  
  
     "Barton..." There was a different lilt to Fury's voice this time. "Sometimes... sometimes the strongest people in the world can find themselves in situations beyond their control that they can't get out of. Can you understand that?”  
     "There's always a way out, sir." Clint was incredibly confused. _Why is he asking me so many questions? Why the hell isn’t SuitMan saying anything? Did I do something?_  
     "Always? Fine. What if one doesn't recognise the environment is..hostile, until it is too late?" Fury was uncharacteristically pressing, like he was trying to lead Clint to something without actually being able to say it.  
     "Are you concerned that I might misread the terrain? I'm aware of the risks associated with the mission, Director." Clint deflected from the question by asking one of his own.  
     "Are you being purposely obtuse?" Fury asked, eyes narrowing before looking over at the man in the suit in the corner by the door. "Is he _always_ this infuriating?"  
     "This isn't even scratching the surface. He's usually far less tolerable." Coulson admitted plainly.  
  
Clint just glared at the desk between himself and Fury, unsure of what it was he seemed to be missing.  
  
     "If was to throw you in a room and have twenty men train guns on you, would I be wrong to call that environment hostile?” The Director asked, looking like he was ready to pull out his hair if he actually had any.  
_Is he trying to intimidate me?_  Clint pondered the question for a moment. _It’s not working._  
     "Well if they're only training their guns on me because you told them to, to scare me... But they have no orders to shoot or harm me, they're hardly being hostile." Clint pointed out, "sir.”  
It’s not like Fury would actually _shoot_  him… Right?  
     "Barton." He sighed, exasperated. "Clint, just work with me here okay. Let's say I take a two-day old puppy and I throw it in with a pack of wolves. What would you expect to happen?"  
     "I expect I'd break your nose," Clint muttered under his breath. "They'd probably eat it, unless it managed good enough puppy eyes for them to adopt it."  
Fury ignored Clint's comment, but a flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.   
     "Say they adopted it, maybe they see potential, maybe they just want someone to pick on. All this puppy would know of life is violence and aggression and living at the bottom of the pack. It would assume that's normal, correct?“  
Clint nodded, not wanting to say anything that might drag out this already endless discussion.  
     "Barton, I just want you to think about whether you'd blame the dog when it grew up. Whether if it killed someone, it should be put down. Or whether he should blame himself," he added, giving him a deep, pointed stare before turning in his chair, breaking eye contact and muttering lowly, "Meeting adjourned.”  
  
Clint furrowed his brow, sending a sideways glance at SuitMan, who was still watching impassively from the corner of the room.  
_Umm._    
     “Are you waiting for something, Agent?” Fury asked, sounding remarkably tired but not turning around, acting like Clint suddenly wasn’t even worth his time.  
Clint stood silently, hesitating the slightest moment before scampering out of the room and down the corridor, not looking back to see if his handler was following. He skidded to a halt in the silent corridor, catching a brief exchange between the other two remaining in the room.  
     “Does he seriously not get it, or is he intentionally trying to piss me off?”  
     “More so the first,” Coulson sighed, pulling the door shut and stepping out into the corridor. He glanced at Clint, expression unreadable, before turning and walking away.

 


	6. I'm your superhero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just before arriving at an important mission, Clint learn's there's quiet a significant piece of information he's missing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have watched Lord Of The Rings too many times, and that one Gandalf quote about true courage kinda fuelled this fire.

Coulson was watching him. Clint knew. He had been ever since they left. Never looking directly at him, but never looking away either, Coulson had been watching him very closely. They had settled into a one sided silence which gave Clint a feeling he was the only one who found it awkward or uncomfortable. Eventually, after he was certain SuitMan was just about tracking his respirations, he cracked.  
     "What?" He grumbled, meeting his handlers eye with a challenging ( _and disgruntled_ ) stare.  
     "How eloquent." Phil quipped, folding his arms. "Is there something you want to ask, Agent?"  
     "Yes. What?" Clint repeated. "I can't be any more precise because I don't even know what it is that I don't know. So just... What?”  
SuitMan stared blankly at him. They were about thirty minutes away from Austria, and usually at this stage in a mission, Clint was totally in his zone and not in a questioning mood.  
     "What I just ascertained from that was that you don't know what you want to ask. Which means you're asking me what you should want to ask, which is ridiculous because how on earth do you expect me to understand what unspoken question it is inside your brain that you don't even know?" Coulson replied flatly.  
Clint nodded slowly.  _Well at least he's talking now. But he sounds tense._  "I just... You're being all... Secretive."  
     "What would I have to be secretive about?” His handler asked placidly, shuffling the papers he always seemed to be carrying with him.  
     "Gee, I don't know, you're a spy." Clint grumbled. "Seriously though. You and Fury keep giving each other searching glanced when you think I'm not looking. Even with my eyes closed I can still see you! I know you're up to something."  
     "The Director and I have worked together for a long time, we could probably have entire discussions without words, I wouldn't be so self centred to believe we spend all our time discussing  _you_ ," Coulson replied cooly.  
     "Fine, sure. But you're being all quiet around me like you're waiting for something."  
  
Coulson shifted slightly in his seat, but otherwise remained unresponsive. "Maybe we are," he shrugged, sounding decidedly reserved, like he wasn't allowed to say anything more.  
     "Did I do something? Or did I  _not_  do something that I should have?” Clint dragged a hand across his face.  _You’re stressing me the heck out._  "Why are you walking on eggshells around me?"  
     "You haven't done anything yet don't worry-" Phil winced as the words slipped from his mouth.  
Clint stilled. Y _et?_  
_They're waiting for me to fuck up._    
He straightened up slightly, fixing SuitMan with a challenging look. Coulson watched him for a moment as he formulated his words reluctantly.  
     "It's.. Complicated. I don't have the clearance to know all the details," SuitMan said flatly. "I'm not supposed to tell you anything about what I  _have_  heard." A flicker of Phil under the suit.  
     "I get it, it's fine," he replied bitterly. "You don't trust me with it, because I'm probably going to screw up anyways."  
Phil rolled his eyes, "I said  _supposed_ ," he muttered lowly, "I'm not the stickler for the rules you always believe me to be.”   
  
_Wait what… SuitMan breaking rules? For me!_  
Clint just raised a single eyebrow, arms crossed.  
     "It seems amongst the higher ups, there's a disagreement about what they really want you to do on this next mission," he sighed, speaking quietly as if afraid the walls had ears. It was SHIELD, to be honest it was highly possible.  
Clint tired not to show a reaction, but the news did come as a surprise to him. "File said termination of live threat."  
     "Yes. It did.” Coulson seemed unsure, which wasn’t something Clint saw often. It was thoroughly unsettling.  
     "What's there to disagree with?" Clint prompted, wondering if this was why Fury was making such a big deal about it.  
     "The target is...  _skilled_. There's debate about the right method of action for...dealing with them," he admitted.  
     "So you're saying... Eliminate them without killing them? What - Ask them nicely to stop being evil?" Clint did not like the chances.  
     "Did I say I thought it was a good idea?" Coulson quipped back, running a hand through his hair. "Although, I regret to agree with Fury on one note,  _evil_  is probably a bit excessive."  
     "Sue me for being dramatic, but if attempting to reason with them first was part of the mission, shouldn't I have been informed of this by now?”  
_I’ll be at the sniper point within the hour… The target could be dead within sixty five minutes, and i’m only just finding out there a second option?_  
     "That's the issue," Coulson sighed, "It's not. It's not  _allowed_  to be. The council is forbidding it to be a direct order of the mission."  
"But it's an option? What's your stance on it? What does Fury want? Is that why he was talking in riddles during the briefing?" Clint asked slowly, trying to piece it all together.  
"It shouldn't  _be_  an option," Coulson muttered, with far more aggression than normal behind his voice. "Fury...Fury wants to win. At the end of the day, the Director wants SHIELD to come out on top. Every play up till that final moment, whatever that might be, it's with something a whole lot bigger in mind."  
Clint thought about the revelation. He was better at shooting people than at talking to them, but that didn’t mean he’d prefer to kill someone if there was an alternative… However, the mere fact that Coulson was so reluctant to talk about the alternative suggested  _his_  stance on it.  
  
     “You want me to kill her. Like the file says." Clint stated, no questioning to his tone.  
     “I don’t  _want_  you to kill anyone. Nor do I want you to try and be a hero. I want you to come back alive, Clint. I don’t want to bury you. Or what’s left of you.” Phil sighed, "But telling you what to do is pointless, because you're a stubborn ass almost all the time.”  
     "So the risk of dying isn't worth the potential to save a life?" Clint asked softly. “Is that how it is to you?"  
     "I didn't say that."  
     "I can't go out there without a clear objective, Sir. So you need to clarify what it is that I'm required to do." Clint replied steadily.  _This is ridiculous, we’re hitting the pavement in  twenty six minutes and I don’t even know if I’m supposed to save a life or end it._  
     "The mission states that the threat needs to be eliminated," repeated the other agent just as steadily.  
     "I can read, Coulson." Clint sighed tiredly. "I have no problem with killing someone if there's cause, but I don't want to do it if you're all sitting on a fence about it.”  _I don’t want to get back from the mission to find out everyone wanted me to keep her alive._  
     "You say that, but the council is normally on the fence for about 45% of your missions. It's just that this one is unfortunately big," he noted, fiddling with his tie uncomfortably.  
     "That fills me with confidence." Clint grumbled. "So what did Fury mean then, with all those riddles. And what is it about this whole deal that I just don't get?"  
     "That conversation started about the mission and ended up on a whole tangent about you, to be honest,” Coulson admitted with a shrug. "Fury just, for whatever reason, seems to think he has intel on the target's past. I can't understand how, but he doesn't believe they are entirely what they seem, I guess."  
Clint looked away considering what was being said as he checked over his bow and quiver and knives for the umpteenth time.  _He’s not going to tell me what he really thinks… he doesn’t want to force me into anything. I need to shake his mask._  
     "Were you sent to kill me?" Clint asked bluntly, thinking back to how similar the situations seemed. He didn’t think it was true, of course, but it would be interesting to see how SuitMan defended his actions.   
     "Your case was more complicated than that," Coulson replied quietly. "I mean, for starters, if I hadn't been there you likely would've taken yourself out anyway, so the Council weren't concerned with your threat to others."  
_He didn't deny it. He didn’t even deny it!_  
_Maybe he can’t_.  
Clint huffed out a sharp breath, flicking his eyes away to focus on anything else. "You don't call  _this_  complicated?"  
     "Everything is complicated," Coulson countered, "Yours was just _more_  complicated. This... This is  _dangerous_."  
     "We deal with dangerous everyday, Sir, I'm sure it will be manageable."  
     "You don't even know who the target is, do you?" Coulson sighed agitatedly.  
_Oh. Awkward._  
Clint had received both files of course, the mission outline and the target information. He wasn’t going to mention that he hadn’t read the second one. He never did. He knew he had to be on the 18th floor of the building across from a private apartment. He knew that a young woman was going to enter the apartment at same stage in the next hour, and attempt to assassinate a presidential candidate. He knew that he had to stop her. But he didn’t want to know her name, it always made it harder. Made them seem more human than killer. Made it seem like he was at the wrong end of the shot.  
     "The mission file referred to her like she was quite a big deal... But no, I'm not familiar with the target." Clint admitted. He didn’t need to know how old she was or her parents names, or where she was born. He didn’t want to read about her tragic backstory. ( _Let’s be real, anyone in this line of work has something dark in their past_ ).  
     "She's a ghost. Practically untraceable. No one knows her MO, we have minimal information on her background and all we know for certain is that she is good.  _Dangerously_  good. She doesn't leave survivors. I don't want to let you be another tally mark for her, Clint.” Coulson spoke carefully, like he was refraining from letting out any information above what was absolutely necessary.  
     "So how can you know where she's going to be? Don't tell me you're sending me in on some 'tip off' on her location." Clint asked uneasily.   
     "Maybe?" Coulson mussed up his hair even more, "I'm not privy to all the details, all I know is this is the most solid intel they've ever had on her. An undercover agent suggested we would find her here."  
     "So it's likely going to be a trap. Fabulous." Clint grumbled, crossing his arms. "Why is it that I'm only finding this out by asking? Shouldn't this have been mentioned before I agreed?"  _Not that it would have changed my decision..._  
     "I knew if I decided to pull you into a private room and give you all this information, you'd think I was trying to convince you not to go. Maybe I would've been. Then, you would've gone anyway, and it wouldn't have made the slightest difference except Fury would be out for my guts," he explained regretfully.  
Clint had to admit it was a sound argument. But something still seemed shifty.  _Maybe they’re just using me as bait._ "Whatever. I'll do the damn mission, as by the objective in the file.”  
     “Clint.” Phil spoke softly, the rhythmic white noise of the chopper nearly masking his words. “Read the file. I know you haven’t, you never do, and I’m okay with that usually I’d turn a blind eye. But this is different. You need to know who you’re going after.”   
Clint clenched his teeth, but reluctantly slid the file from his bag. It was one of the thickest files he’d dealt with, which had made him even more determined  _not_  to find out what secrets it held. He opened the cover suspiciously and froze.  
  
**TARGET: NATALIA ROMANOVA**  
**CODENAME: BLACK WIDOW**  
  
_No way._  Clint blinked once. Then twice.  _Fuck._    
     "You're sending me after the Widow?" He asked slowly.  _They want me to die. They’re actually sending me to my death. It’s their messed up way of firing me. Send me to get killed on a mission so they don’t have to ask me to resign. Ouch._  
     "If it was up to me, not in a million years," Phil muttered. "The  _Director_ ," there was no hiding the edge of bitterness to his voice, "insists you're the one for the job."  
_Because I wouldn't say no._  Clint thought back to the mission they had gone on a few months ago, and Coulson had been uneasy about an upcoming task.  
      _‘Fury only picked you because he knows no one else would be reckless enough to take this mission.’_  
This was the mission.  
This is what Phil had been worried about.  
_But if Fury wanted me to take this mission… why didn’t he tell me the second objective?_  
_Because no one agrees to fight the Widow. No one willingly puts themselves in the same country as her, let alone in the same building._  
     “So what the director was saying... About there not always  being a way out..." Clint trailed off,  _this doesn't sound good._  
     "Director Fury seems to have some...personal knowledge, I guess, about the target. He seems to believe she didn't 'choose' the path she's on. How or why, I don't know."  
     "So... When he was talking about redemption... What, he thinks she  _wants_  an out?" Clint was sceptical about this whole deal, he just wanted to get it over with.  
"No one has a clue what she  _wants_. I suppose Fury thinks that she at least deserves a chance putting her skills to a better cause. It only makes me wonder what he knows that would be enough to counterbalance that sheer volume of kills."  
     "I feel like killing her would almost weigh on my conscious as much as sparing her would." Clint grumbled.  _Why do I have to make the tough choice? I don’t do choices, I just follow orders._  
     "There's always option three of just not going at all," Coulson shrugged, knowing it was a lost cause but firing a last hopeful shot anyway.  
     "How courageous." He drawled. “Coulson, we’re seventeen minutes out. If I back out now, Eyepatch will put me in the bottom of a river."  
     "Don't be ridiculous, I'm the one who would end up at the bottom of a river.” Phil argued. "You don't have to be that courageous, you don't have to play the hero."  
     "I'm not 'playing' anything." Clint defended. And there was no way he was letting SuitMan take the fall for his actions, no matter how it worked out.  
     You know that's not what I meant. I just don't want you to die, sometimes it's heroic to make the right decision too, y'know," Coulson countered.  
     "So saving her is the wrong decision? You haven't even met her yet, and you've said you don't know her history. I just don't get where you draw the line." Clint didn't want to argue with Coulson. He was one of the only people who was nice to him, yet here he was testing his patience.  _If I was worth saving, maybe she is too._  
     "Stop putting words in my mouth, Clint!" Coulson fired back, irritated. "I just can't help thinking that this is all some elaborate plan that you'll be dumped right in the middle of."  
     "And if it is?" Clint challenged, before stopping and taking a breath. "I need you on my side for this, Phil. I can't go in there with us disagreeing about what's got to be done."  
Coulson’s eyes snapped to his at the use of his name. He let out a pent up breath and folded his arms.  
     “I know, Clint. I don’t want to fight with you on this. But if we find out it’s a trap, I want to make the call to pull you out straight away."  
     "Not happening. Like Fury said, we can't show our hand in this. If I go in and come out without accomplishing anything, we've revealed that we have Intel without actually achieving anything. You said an undercover agent gave us this information. If I leave this mission unfinished, the Widow could trace it back to that agent and kill them. I'm not leaving until the mission is over, one way or the other." Clint replied steadily. Losing him and gaining her would be better for SHIELD than keeping him in one piece but still having the Widow at large...  _Right_?  
     "Fine. We will complete the mission, but we are not losing you in order to gain the Widow. She will likely be an uncooperative asset, which could result in us having to kill anyway, so losing you to bring her in isn't worth it, understand?"  
  
Clint processed his words and thought on them for a few moments.  _Just agree with him, there’s no time to argue._  
     "Yes sir.”  
Coulson seemed surprised but covered it quickly. “Good."  
     "But," Clint began, picking his words carefully, "if an opportunity presents itself, I'll still try and talk to her. She might be nice."  
Coulson gave him a dead stare. "Barton, I always knew you were a little insane, but did you just say  _the Widow_  might be  _nice_?"  
     "Maybe she can do puppy eyes." Clint muttered, not wanting to condemn someone he hadn't even heard the story of yet.  
     "Did the photos of the...remains found in Bulgaria fall out of your file or something?” Coulson questioned in disbelief. "I'm not saying it's not worth a shot; I agree that you should take an opportunity if it presents itself," he clarified, "I just don't know how you got to your opinion of the mentality of the target."  
     "We've all done things we regret, Agent. Who can say if she's acting against her will." Clint didn't want to think about what kind of person he would be if he had stayed with the carnies. Everyone deserves a second chance, and he wasn't going to use his to deny someone else's.  
Coulson was silent. Eerily silent. "You're the hell can you see that in even the Widow, and not in you when Fury tried to explain it?"  
Clint frowned. "That's different." He wasn't sure how, but it just was.  
     "How so?"  
     "Well. For a start..." Clint paused. "Wait… when are you suggesting I acted against my will?"  
Phil hesitated for a moment. "You wouldn't have ended up on the path you were on without certain external factors that pushed you in that direction, making you have to choose actions you may now blame yourself for."  
     "Blaming myself for things is different to having my hand forced. They could be blackmailing her or something.” Clint defended, watching out of the window as the landing site came into view.  
     "Not really," he shrugged back. "I mean, you blame yourself for not getting out of the situation you were born into sooner than you did, and even then you blame yourself for ending up in another bad environment."  
_How does he know that? I never told him that._  
Clint stared at the laces of his shoes, following the twisted rope in and out of knots. "It's not that simple."  
     "You want to elaborate on that?"  
      "No," he grumbled, crossing his arms. W _hy do we always end up talking about me?_  
     "Fine. If you won't, I will, because it really is that simple. You were born into a shit home and you didn't get a choice in it and it should never have been your responsibility to get yourself out of the situation you did not create. That's it.”  
“I wasn’t born into a shit home, things only went to shit when i came along. So don’t you lecture me on things you don’t understand.” Clint snapped,  _we don’t have time to be arguing right now._  
Coulson flinched ever so slightly. "Then make me understand, Barton," he replied cooly, holding his stare on him.  
Clint tugged a hand through his short hair, still keeping his eyes low.  _Control your breathing. Gather your thoughts. You need to be calm on this mission, you can’t be emotional._  "The thing about running away is that... Once you start, you can never really stop. Your actions always catch you up. Right, and you can say it wasn't my fault, but it still happened, and if I wasn't there it wouldn't have, so to me that makes it my fault, and always will."  
“You never made a choice to lan in a situation where they forced you to leave," Coulson countered, focussed intensely on him.   
Clint stared for a second.  _Doesn't he know…?_ /  
     "No one  _forced_ me to do anything." _Okay that was a lie. But in regards to this conversation... It wasn't too untruthful._  
     "Not  _literally_. But if I keep kicking a puppy, eventually it's gonna bite me.” Coulson explained. "You wouldn't blame the puppy, would you? You'd blame me for kicking it.”  
_What kind of monster kicks a puppy?_  
     “Well at least the dog has the guts to fight back.” Clint muttered. “But what is it with you and Fury and cruelty of precious animals?"  
     "So if the dog were to run, you would blame it? Or condemn it for not fighting?"  
     "I sure as hell wouldn't chase it.”  _We have less than three minutes, why are we talking about dogs!_  
Coulson sighed again, and shook his head slightly.  
     “Clint. Is it so hard to grasp that when Fury and I were using the anecdotes of a puppy as a metaphor for you? Seems to be the only way to get you to give a shit about yourself. You’re oddly defensive of animals.”  
  
_What?_  
"As long as you aren't planning on kicking me.” Clint grumbled eventually, standing and tugging his bag of gear over his shoulder once the chopper came to a stop.  
     "Don't be stupid, Barton," Coulson muttered, sliding the door open for him  
     "I've always been stupid," Clint sighed, more so to himself, climbing out onto roof of the warehouse. A firm hand grasped his arm, stopping him.  
     "What did you just say?" He asked, slowly, sounding _Dangerously Calm™_.  
     "I'm the one with the hearing problem, sir, I'm sure you don't need me to repeat myself.” Clint stared at the hand on his sleeve but didn’t pull away yet.  _We're five minutes early, I still have thirty five minutes to get to the building. Don’t leave on an argument._  
     "Barton.” Coulson fixed him with a stern stare. "How did you come to that conclusion?"  
     "That I have a hearing problem? Gee, I don't know, maybe when my eardrums burst and I couldn't distinguish any noises without a piece of technology jabbed into my skull, that was a bit of a giveaway." Clint retorted sharply.  
Phil's glare intensified. "How did you come to the conclusion you're stupid?" He asked, the terse edge to his voice becoming more prominent.  
     "Do you want the explanation to be alphabetical or chronological?" He said sarcastically.  _Thirty four minutes._  
     "I don't care, Barton, give me an explanation," he replied, his voice getting a little more angry.  
Clint sighed and looked away, hoping he would drop the topic entirely and just let him go.  _Surely he’ll forget about this conversation by the time I get back from the mission… if I do get back._  
  
Coulson’s stare didn’t waver.  
_Ugh._  
     "Repeated verbal reinforcement."  
     "It's an outright lie," Coulson retorted flatly, clearly angry, but not directly at him.  
     "Oh that's nice, makes it so easy to distinguish from all the other lies I've been force fed. Thanks.” Clint grumbled bitterly.  _Thirty three minutes, c’mon Coulson I need to leave._  
     "How can you possibly believe that though?" Coulson protested. "You're the best agent I have the pleasure of handling, hell, you're one of the best agents in SHIELD. You don't get that by being dumb."  
     "No, you get that by following orders and not asking questions. Some people would say that's the same thing. Speaking of following orders…” Clint shifted his arm, testing Coulson's grip, his boots crunching restlessly against the asphalt.    
Coulson actually laughed. Humourlessly, but a laugh nonetheless. "No. You get agent of the month for doing that. The best agents are the successful ones. The best agents in history have never truly followed orders. Nor have they ever left anything unquestioned. Agent Carter, our founder, for one. Steve Rogers, although not an agent, would have also made a fine one."  
     "Well I'll leave the glory to you and your stars, but if we're done here, I have a job to do." Clint tugged his arm from Coulson’s hand, stepping away from the helicopter.  
     “Don’t try and be a hero, Barton. See you in two hours.” Coulson said tightly.  
     “Don’t tell me what to do,” Clint turned away and begun walking to the fire escape.  
     “I’m your damn handler, I’ll do what I please.” Coulson called from behind him. “Don’t you  _dare_ die out there, Clint.”  
He jumped down to the ladder, shooting once last glance toward Phil before he started climbing.  
     “No promises." 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone see that coming? Nat was hinted to in an earlier chapter :)
> 
> btw the LOTR quote that kinda inspired our take on this was:  
> / True courage is not about knowing when to take a life, but when to spare one /
> 
> *wiggles eyebrows suggestively*


	7. we are standing on the edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint goes after the infamous Black Widow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is based off a true event, but as a significant person involved is still alive, I changed their name in this for the sake of respect and stuff. It was a pretty major case though, so if you are intrigued, a little googling can point you in the right direction.
> 
> also, a teensy bit of Russian and Ukrainian used in this chapter, translations at the bottom, if anyone can improve or correct this, please comment :)

Dropping from the fire escape, Clint landed silently on the ground, boots making no noise as he stepped out into the street, head down, focussed. He pulled the fake ID from his pocket, scanning it at the backdoor of a building before slipping inside.   
_Down the corridor, two lefts, third door on the right._  
Once he reached the locker room, he forced open the nearest locker, grabbing out a uniform of dark blue slacks and a polo shirt with a Ukrainian logo. Spotting a matching logo on a cap, he tugged it over his hair, pulling it low across his face before stepping back into the corridor.   
  
Blending seamlessly with the rest of the workers, he easily made his way to the 18th floor, past offices and workshops, no one giving him a second glance, assuming him to be a cleaner or maintenance staff. Heading to the east side of the building, he found an empty office, locked the door and dragged the desk in front of it.  
     “In position, sir.” He spoke into his earpiece, dropping his hat to the floor and opening his bag to assemble his equipment.  
     “Just in time. The presidential candidates have entered the meeting, they should be coming out in an hour or so. Make sure she doesn’t get into that building.” Coulson’s voice answered him, reassuring in the sea of unfamiliarity.   
     “Understood.” Clint replied, prying open the window and allowing the cool air to flow into the room, knocking an arrow, resting the bow in position. He settled into his stance, muscles still, breathing shallow, ready to wait as long as he needed.  
  
  
Countless people passed on the ground below him, unaware of the arrow trained on the very spot they stood. Each of them stepped into the path of death, but stepped out of it again just as quickly, Clint’s gaze never faltering, focus never dropping.   
After forty three minutes of silence, of stillness, Coulson spoke again.  
     “I’ve got eyes on her. 500 metres from your line of sight, approximately seven minutes until she reaches the building.”  
     “Am I to shoot, sir?” Clint asked, preparing the shot.  
The silence on the other end of the line was not in the least reassuring.  
     “Sir? Do I take the shot?” Clint asked again.  
     “She’s not alone.” Coulson replied uneasily. _Shit. I can deal with that._  
     “Take them both out?” Clint questioned. The Widow _always_  worked alone. This was new.  
     “Negative… it’s a kid, Barton. She’s got a young girl with her.” He could hear the discomfort in his handlers voice as the words reached him.   
     “Could you repeat that?” Clint lowered his bow a fraction. _Who drags a child into a mess like this?_  
     “One underage, possibly a civilian. You can’t take that shot, Clint, even with your aim, we can’t risk it. We have no idea who that child is, or what will happen to them. You’ll have to head in on foot.”  
     “Understood.”   
  
He disassembled his bow, stashing it back in his bag and shoving the desk out of the way. He kept his head down as he passed back through the corridor, walking as quickly as he could without raising suspicions. Now, not only did he have to chose between sparing or killing an assassin, but there was some kid to be worrying about too. _Great._  
This was not going at all to plan.   
  
By the time he was back on the ground floor and stepping out onto the street, he knew they couldn’t be more than 50 metres away from him. He glanced each way before crossing the road, and that was when he spotted her.  
  
A dark haired woman in a winter coat, one hand deep in her pocket, the other grasping a much smaller arm. The girl beside her couldn’t have been older than eight, and was doing an admirable job at hiding her discomfort. Most people would have seen them as a rich tourist and her daughter.  
Clint was not most people.  
The jacket did well to hide the bulk of any weapons she may have been carrying, but Clint wasn’t so thick as to assume the hand in her pocket wasn’t tight around a gun or a knife.   
She glanced around easily, and could have been simply admiring the scene if it wasn’t for the way her gaze lingered a second longer on the guards outside the building they were both approaching.   
     “She’s entering the building.” Clint muttered into his collar as the Widow led the young girl through the revolving glass doors.  
     “Security won’t let her through, in the very least they’ll ensure she isn’t armed.”   
Clint watched from the corner of his eye as she spoke briefly with a staff member, before a guard approached her. The girls hand dropped from her side as she stepped away, the security checking her bag and pockets, before ushering her toward a metal detector.   
  
Clint followed them into the foyer, watching on the reflection of the security’s glasses as she passed through the machine and the screen flashed green. _She’s not carrying any weapons? None at all?_  
That seemed unlikely. She smiled politely at the guards, and thanked them in Ukrainian, holding her hand out for the young girl, who hurried back to her side obediently.   
_Wait…_  
“The kids a vessel.” Clint whispered quickly. “Smuggled weapons in for her. Security didn’t even check her pockets. She could have anything in there, even a bomb.”  
     “It won’t be a bomb, she’s far too subtle for that. Can you follow her? See where she goes.”  
     “I can’t get through security with my gear.”  
Clint glanced quickly around the lobby, eyes stopping on a cleaning trolley. _Bingo._  He strolled past it, dropping the bag from his shoulder and kicking it beneath it as he passed, his weapons sliding out of sight, unnoticed.   
     “Barton, you can’t go in unarmed.” Coulson hissed in his ear. “Barton, seriously, whatever you’re thinking-“  
Clint didn’t hear the rest of whatever his handler had to say, tugging his specialised aids out of his ears and placing them in a tray, he nodded once at the guard, who watched him cautiously but otherwise made no move to intercept him.   
  
He passed through the metal detector, thankful that for once he didn’t have a knife stashed in his boots, and reclaimed his hearing aids, replacing them and turning them back on.  
     “Barton, if you don’t reply to me this instant-“  
     “Ty tut dlya dyskusiyi?[1]” The guard questioned, eyebrow raised. _I knew I should have learnt Ukranian._  
     “Tak.[2]” Clint replied simply, hoping he had a 50/50 chance of getting the right answer.  
The guard nodded and let him pass, so he breathed a sigh of relief and continued down the corridor where he had last spotted the widow.   
     “I’m in, Coulson.”  
     “You’re an idiot, Clint.”  
  
He stopped walking as a door opened in front of him, the young girl stepping out, noticeably lighter on her feet, and glancing nervously at Clint before hurrying back outside. He waited until she was out of sight before stepping into the room she had just come from, shutting the door firmly behind him.   
  
The Black Widow was standing by the sink, adjusting her hair in the mirror, her eyes widened when she caught sight of his reflection, and she spun around, a hand covering her mouth in indignation.  
     “это дамы ванной![3]” She snapped in Russian. Clint glanced around, and sure enough, he was in the womens bathroom. _Whoopsies?_  
_“_ Прости,[4]” he raised his hands apologetically, turning back to the door as if he was leaving. She was watching him closely, eerily still, much like a predator ready to pounce. He sure didn’t like the idea of becoming the prey.  
Locking the door, he turned back to face her. She narrowed her eyes slightly, but still played innocent.  
     "Вы не должны быть здесь.[5]” She chided. [You should not be here.]  
     “Neither should you, Widow.” He saw the slight surprise flicker through her eyes before they hardened again. She nodded her chin toward the corner, where he had already noticed the security camera. She couldn’t try and attack him while they were being watched. But neither could he.  
     “I know who you are.” He continued.   
     “You know nothing, American.” She growled, thick Russian accent. _At least she speaks english._  
     “Who was the child?” He questioned, glancing quickly over her, and noting the tell tale signs of at least three weapons she hadn’t been carrying when she’d walked in.   
     “Unimportant. She did what was needed, and is gone now. You have no reason to cause her harm.” There was a hardedge to her tone, that almost sounded protective.  
     “I’m not here for her. I’m here for you.”   
Clint was sure he saw the slightest flash of relief in her eyes, but she was as skilled at hiding her thoughts as Coulson.   
     “I do not fear death.” She quipped. “If I don’t finish this, I’m dead anyways. You are simply wasting my time."  
     “I can help you, Romanova.”   
She almost flinched at the use of her name, taking a moment to compose herself before responding scathingly.  
     “The only thing you can do for me, is stay out of my way."  
  
Clint watched her warily. That was a heavy choice to make. Neither of them moved, watching each other warily in the otherwise empty bathroom. Clint was just thinking they’d reached a stale mate, when the widow smirked.  
     “'American tourist attacks young woman in a bathroom…’” She gave him a pointed glare. “All I have to do is scream, and one of those guards will come in a shoot you down. I have work to do, don’t try to follow me.”   
  
She pushed past him, unlocking the door and stepping back into the corridor. He wasn’t sure it was intentionally, but as she’d passed he had felt the unmistakable shape of a gun in her jacket pocket.   
     “The minor is out of the picture, I’m in pursuit of the target.” Clint said over the radio, waiting a few seconds before following her out into the corridor.   
     “Barton, don’t try and engage the target if you’re unarmed, she’s lethal, dammit!”  
     “Fury was right. She’s here against her will. We can-“  
     “ _We_  can’t do anything if you’re six feet under, Clint. Think this through.”   
     “No time,” he watched her disappearing up a flight of stairs and hurried after her.   
  
Her footsteps sped up above him, and he glanced around the stairwell, noting the lack of surveillance. Stepping up to the bannister, he launched himself up to the platform above him, grabbing at her ankle as she ran past.   
She fell to the floor with a curse, and then his wrist was twisting with a sickening noise. He dropped his arm away, guarding it closely to his body and relying on his other hand to support his weight.  
Her hands flashed through the railing, snapping into fists at his collar and dragging his face level with hers.  
     “I told you not to follow me.” She growled, before jerking him forward and smashing his face into the metal bars.   
He scrabbled to regain his grip as the world around him spun, cursing under his breath as he used his injured arm to haul himself back onto the stairway.   
  
By the time he pulled himself back to his feet, she had disappeared from sight. He hurried up the stairs, checking each of the doors to try and figure out which one she had gone through. He finally opened the door to the second floor from the roof, spotting her perched on a chair by a desk, her body obscuring whatever it was she was doing.  
     “I told you not to follow me.” She said calmly, not turning to face him.   
     “I can’t let you do this.” Clint said carefully, stepping into the room behind her, still painfully aware that he was unarmed and she _was_  a weapon.  
     “Then by all means, try to stop me.” She challenged, still focussed on what she was doing.   
Clint walked quietly around the desk so he was facing her.   
  
She had two glasses of water on the desk, and a knife, as well as a few shards of a clear crystalized substance. Clint watched in silence as she used the side of the knife to crush the crystals, and used the blade to scrape the powder into a small pile, working meticulously and precisely.    
     “You haven’t killed me yet,” she noted plainly, a gloved finger picking up a pinch of the powder and dropping it into one of the glasses, stirring it with the blade of her knife until it dissipated.  
     “Nor have you.” Clint pointed out. He was still surprised by that. The woman across from him didn’t seem to be the stone cold killer he had heard so many hushed stories about.   
     “I do not want a mess. The security camera’s have not caught me doing anything unsavoury, I do not wish to give security a reason to become suspicious of me. If I kill you, I would have to dispose of your body, which would mean I’m not able to leave the building before this comes into effect,” she tilted her chin towards the powder as she stirred another pinch in. “By the time my job is done, I intend to be miles away, I will have made such a fleeting impression on the staff here, that when asked of any suspicious characters, the only person who will come to mind… will be you.”   
  
_She’s limiting collateral damage… she’s not even trying to save her own skin. She just wants to get it over with and leave… and she won’t leave until her job is done… but I can’t leave until I finish mine..._  
  
     “What is that?” He asked, as the last grains of the substance disappeared.   
     “2,3,7,8-Tetrachlorodibenzodioxin.” She snapped. “Now quit with the questions, just because I’m not wasting my time killing you yet, doesn’t mean I won’t cut out your tongue.”   
  
_2,3,7,8… I recognise that name… dioxin… a slow acting poison… counteracted by Eicosapentaenoic Acid._ Funny how the things you learn as a killer come in useful when you’re trying to avoid being killed. _But why is she telling me so much? That’s reckless, even by my standards… she knows its unlikely we’ll both make it out of this… and she doesn’t care._  
     “You’re going to poison the candidate? I could just tip those glasses down the sink right now.”  
     “Then I would shoot the candidate, less subtle, I admit, but having no need to retain my secrecy, I would no longer be adverse to shooting you.” The Widow watched him, calculatingly. “You think you know who I am, but obviously you don’t. If you knew what I was capable of you would either be pissing your pants, or running for your cowardly life.”  
     “I am aware of your skill set and it’s uses.” He said calmly, remembered how SuitMan had said those very same words to him all those months ago. “Come with me.”  
     “Why would I do that?” She challenged as she picked up the two glasses in her gloved hands and stood, turning away from the desk.   
     “We can offer you a better deal than whoever it is you’re working for now.”   
     “I do not care about you Americans and your money.”  
     “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” He said cooly. “I don’t know what your employers are holding against you, but I know you aren’t doing this for money."  
 She stilled, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “I am not _employed._  I am _owned._ ”  
“You don’t have to be. Not anymore.”  
     “They would find me. Don’t underestimate what the Room is capable of.”   
     “We would protect you. Don’t underestimate the lengths we’d go to, to keep our word.”  
She narrowed her eyes slightly, but did not take any more steps toward the door.   
     “You were not sent here for me.” She stated bluntly. “You would have been sent to save Yavorskiy.”   
     “Maybe I can save you both.” Clint hoped he could. He wasn’t sure what it was about the Widow, but there was an odd familiarity to the hollowness of her eyes. He knew what it was like to stop looking for an exit plan. But the fact that she hadn’t killed him yet, that she was actually listening to his words, made him think that she  _wanted_ to believe there was still a chance for her.   
  
She placed the two glasses down on a cabinet near the door, turning her full attention back to him.  
     “Both of these contain a potentially lethal chemical. One holds a dose enough to kill a grown man, the other would only cause pain and long term damage. Either would suffice for the sake of my mission, I intended to let the opposition unknowingly pick his own fate.” She tilted her head to the side as she watched him, eyes staring straight through him with an unnerving steely stare. “Your proposition is tempting, I admit, but I would not forsake my country for the sake of some half arsed American’s who don’t even carry weapons. Prove to me what your word stands for, and I may consider your proposition.”  
Clint nodded cautiously. “How do you expect me to do that? As you said, if we fight, security will come for us."  
  
She glanced toward the door. “Yavorskiy has just finished his speech, he will come through that door in ninety three seconds, and he will want a drink of water. These glasses both contain a potentially deadly chemical. One glass has a high enough dosage to kill a grown man, you would not notice anything, but you would be dead within a month. The other glass only holds enough to permanently disfigure someone, and cause them immense pain for a few months. I was going to let him pick, but I will leave that choice to you. One glass is yours, one is his. If either of you do not drink it, I will shoot you both.”  
     “And if I survive, you’ll come with me?”  
     “You would take that risk? To save this man? To save me? For you to survive this, you would have to be incredibly lucky.”  
Clint grinned. He knew a thing or two about luck. “Deal.”   
She narrowed her eyes, before turning and disappearing into a closet. From the almost silent click of metal, Clint knew she had a gun trained on him. He let out a deep breath and activated his comm-link.  
     “Coulson?” he asked softly as he went over to the cabinet to examine the two glasses.   
     “Barton!” SuitMan’s voice replied immediately, _he sounds… relieved?._  “Status report.”  
     “It’s all fine I just need to ask… is there any Timnodonic Acid on the helicopter?” Clint scanned them for any differences, any signs that one was deadly and the other wasn’t, but they were identical in every way.   
     “Yes,” the voice replied. “Why the hell are you asking that, Barton? What have you done?”  
     “Nothing, yet.” Clint sighed. “I can’t talk now, but… I should be back in about twenty minutes… with luggage.”  
     “‘ _Should’_  be.” Coulson’s voice parroted. "Whatever you’re planning on doing, don’t.”  
     “Are you left or right handed?” Clint interjected. He wasn’t sure why he was leaving the choice to that, but something about it just seemed right. He’d been lucky that Phil had saved him from himself once before, maybe he would be lucky once again.   
     “What does that have to do with anything?.” Coulson asked warily.  
Clint dipped his pinky finger in one of the glasses, licking the tiniest drop of water, but not noticing even the slightest irregularity to the taste. If he hadn’t seen her doing it, he wouldn’t have believed there was anything but water in the glass.  
     “Barton… Clint? Please tell me what you’re planning.” Phil’s voice had a slightly concerned edge to it. Clint didn’t like the feeling that ran up his spine at the uneasiness in his handler’s tone.  
     “Which is your dominant hand, Coulson?” Clint asked again, keeping his tone neutral, trying not to disclose how important the answer would be. There was a slight sigh from the comm unit.  
     “Right. Now would you tell me what’s going on?"  
Clint didn’t hesitate to pick up the glass on the right, carrying it with him across the room and ducking behind a filing cabinet.  
     “I’ll explain it if I make it out of this,” Clint said quietly. “And if I don’t… well, um,” He was suddenly struck by the thought that for once, he actually had something he would miss if he died. He actually had something worth holding onto. _Nope, no time to think about that now._  “I have to go, Sir. Bye.” Clint turned the comm-link back off just as the door swung open.  
  
He held his breath as the presidential candidate entered the room, sure enough, grabbing the glass of water as he passed it and downing it in one go as he continued over to his desk. Clint held his breath, staying completely still as the man placed the empty glass down and picked up a file, before turning and walking straight out of the room again. The door swung shut behind him and closed with a soft click _._    
_Well fuck._  
_Did I just fail the mission?_  
Clint shot a wary glance toward the closet where he could still feel the Russian watching him, then glanced back down at the glass in his hand.  
_Only one way to find out…_  
He huffed out a resigned breath, before downing the glass of water and straightening up. It tasted… normal. He didn’t feel tingly or unwell at all. But dioxins are slow acting… either him or Yavorskiy could be dying right now, and neither of them would know until it was far too late.   
  
The closet door slid open, and Clint looked over to see the Widow watching him with an odd expression, gun still trained on him.  
     “You’re braver than I thought,” she admitted, “or maybe just stupid. Which glass did you take?”  
     “The one on the right,” Clint watched her expression for any hints as to what that meant, but she didn’t react, except for lowering the gun and letting the safety click back into place.  
     “Well. My work here is done. He will soon be unfit for office, either way. But seeing as I may have just killed you, do you really still believe I should go with you?”  
     “There’s good in you, somewhere. You gave me a choice. A shit choice, granted, but you still gave me a chance. So I’m going to give you one.”   
  
She narrowed her eyes, but walked over to him anyways, the gun disappearing into the folds of her coat.   
     “You have no idea what you are getting yourself into.” She warned.  
Clint just smiled and extended his hand.  
     “I’m Agent Barton. Welcome to SHEILD.” 

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

  1. [Ukranian] - 'Are you here for the debate?'
  2. [Ukranian] - 'Yes'
  3. [Russian] - 'This is the ladies bathroom.'
  4. [Russian] - 'Sorry'
  5. [Russian] - 'You should not be here.'



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do chemistry and HBio but am in no way claiming this to be correct or a reliable source of information on toxins so like... don't try this at home. not that anyone would... I hope.
> 
> the poison used was fat soluble, meaning in someone like Clint that is 97% muscle (okay, thats an exaggeration, let me fantasise), it wouldn't bind to his system, but would flush out fairly easily. however, someone like the target who had a larger body fat percentile and less muscle, the toxins would bind to their adipose tissue, staying inside the body longer and causing damage.
> 
> theoretically.
> 
> i think.
> 
> for the sake of this story, that's how it happens.


	8. the head of state has called for me by name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's a 'shoot now, ask later' kind of guy, and things never go well once the asking begins.

They didn’t speak as Clint headed back toward the recon point, the Widow always a safe distance behind him. Thankfully, he had managed to reclaim his bag of gear as they exited through the lobby, making their way back out onto the street without anyone becoming suspicious of them. He’d been thinking frantically the whole time, his brain never shutting up. Clint knew she was smart. She wouldn’t have done anything without thinking it through in excruciating detail. So the fact that she was trusting him enough to follow him back to SHEILD… well, Clint could only really come to one conclusion about that.  
_She’s not worried about me, because she knows I’m a dead man walking._  
_I took the higher dose._  
  
He climbed the fire escape first, and she followed cautiously. When he reached the roof, he paused for a second, _how the fuck do I explain this to SuitMan?_  
The moment he had hauled himself over the parapet, Phil was stepping off the helicopter and heading toward him.  
     “Barton, you inconsiderate moron, your comm has been off for the last twenty three minutes and I was just about-“ Coulson stilled, mouth closing in a firm line and shoulders straightening as the Widow stepped up onto the roof behind Clint. Phil scanned his eyes over the two of them quickly, lingering on Barton, as he checked them for any obvious injuries, before he spoke again, this time much more collected.  
     “I’m Agent Coulson. I presume you are Natalia Romanova.” He said cooly, not taking any more steps toward them.   
She watched him silently, no doubt picking up on the two guns hidden on his person.   
     “Never presume anything about me.” She answered after a moment, crossing her arms. “Your asset suggested that we could come to an arrangement.”  
  
Coulson narrowed his eyes at the use of the word _asset._  He glanced back over at Clint, trying to gauge how much information he had disclosed. Clint just nodded slightly in response, trusting Coulson to handle the situation.  
     “You’re obviously aware of the threat you pose, and our obligation to discontinue that threat. We will kill you, if it comes to that, have no doubt. But it would be a waste of potential, and I’m sure your skills can be put to better use within our organisation. In return, we would offer you protection from your previous contacts, for as long as you work with us. If you attempt to turn on us, or get back in contact with your old handlers, your position in SHIELD, and your life, would be immediately terminated. Is that understood?”  
She considered the words for a moment, the corner of her mouth twisting up into a smile. “And if I change my mind?”  
     “You would be free to leave. However our protection over you would no longer continue, and if we encounter you in the field, you would be treated the same as any other hostile in that situation.”  
     “ _Согласен_.”   
     “Right, brilliant, now that we’ve sorted that out,” Clint muttered, moving from where they had all been standing frozen and hurrying toward the helicopter, “Where’s that timnodonic?” He stepped onboard, and went straight to the extensive medical kit they always had handy. He rummaged through the various medications, scanning all of the labels for anything with Omega-3 or Eicosapentaenoic Acid.   
     “Barton?” Coulson’s concerned voice followed him, as he tipped a bunch of capsules into his palm. “Clint? What have you done?” The resigned worry in his voice snapped Clint out of his thoughts, and he turned back to face him.  
     “Uhh…” Clint grabbed a bottle of water, tossing the pills in his mouth and washing them down with a long drink. _He’s going to murder you._ “I got a bit of a chemical in my system, no biggie, should be fine.”  
     “He took a lethal dose of TCDD.” Romanova interrupted blandly, raising an eyebrow at Clint’s attempt to ignore the severity of the situation. _So I was right. I took the lethal dose… But I saved the candidate._  
Phil’s hand was on his shoulder, turning Clint around so he could look him in the eye. Clint tried not to give anything away, but those grey eyes stared right through him, and he had to lower his gaze. Coulson dropped his hand, eerily quite for a moment.  
     “Clint. Why on earth would- no, you know what, I don’t even _want_  to know. Just…” Coulson sighed in exasperation, picking up the bottle Clint had just put down and reading over the contents. “You’re lucky you’re 99% muscle. The moment we get back, you’re in medical, no excuses, and you aren’t leaving until we’re certain that the dioxin is flushed from your system completely.”  
_Aww, medical, no._  
     “Fine.” Clint grumbled, plopping himself down into one of the seats and tugging the seatbelt over him.   
     “Did either of you sustain any other injuries I need to know about?” Phil asked wearily, taking a seat.   
     “Negative,” the Widow said as she slipped in, sliding the door closed behind her, keeping a cautious eye on both of them.  
Clint busied himself in checking over the gear in his bag, making sure he had brought it all back with him. Even though he didn’t actually get to use any of it.  
     “Barton?” SuitMan pressed. _Ugh._  
     “Left wrist, sprained...” Clint admitted with a sigh, “possibly dislocated.” He’d been guarding it closely to him the whole way back, just hoping it wouldn’t impact on his ability to shoot. If they took his bow away he would go insane.   
     “And your target?” Coulson asked, focussing on Natalia.   
     “He’ll live.” She replied.  
SuitMan leaned over to tell the pilot to start heading back, before placing his phone on his knee and putting it on speaker.  
     “This is the Director.” Fury’s voice came through.  
     “Agent Coulson, present.” Phil stated.  
     “Barton,” Clint sighed.  _This is going to get messy._  
The Widow raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them.   
     “Natalia Romanova, present.”  
There was a tense pause, that seemed to go on forever, three sets of eyes on the phone.   
     “Well _shit._ ” Fury muttered. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Mission status?”  
     “Yavorskiy is alive, the Widow is… co-operative. Barton requires medical attention, we’re on our way back.”  
     “Noted.” Fury replied. “Romanova, I’ll expect to talk to you once you arrive. Coulson, well done. Barton… you’re a reckless idiot, but well done anyways. Fury, out.”  
The line went dead.   
     “Do you need ice? An ace bandage? Pain relief?” Coulson focussed his gaze on Clint again, and he shifted uncomfortably under it.  
     “Nah, ’s’fine. I better start on my report.”   
Coulson passed him the papers. “I get the feeling it’s going to be a bit of a complex write up.”  
  
  
———  
  
  
Once the helicopter landed, Coulson escorted the Widow straight to Fury’s office, people practically leaping out of the path of the senior agent and the Russian. Clint rolled his eyes, and grudgingly shuffled down to the medical wing. He ducked inside, and allowed his mind to drift away as the nurse begun the familiar routine.   
_She’s murdered countless innocent people… she could just be using this as an opportunity to bring down SHEILD from the inside. Did I make the right choice?_  
_But I was a killer too… maybe all she needs is a new start._  
  
     “Your vital signs are all within normal parameters, I’ll be back to check them again in half an hour.” The nurse informed him, turning and exiting the room and finally leaving Clint on his own. He let out a breath of relief, and counted to sixty before removing the cannula from his right arm, and slipping out of the bed. He stepped up onto the bedside table, popping open the air vent cover and shimmying in.  
_Freedom._  
Clint didn’t know where he was planning on going, he just needed to think. He crawled noiselessly through the metal maze, somehow finding himself in the ceiling above Coulson’s office.   
_Why did I end up here?_    
Peering through the grating into the room below, Clint found something oddly calming about seeing Phil at his desk, working away. It was just so _normal,_ it almost allowed him to forget that he had just brought a highly dangerous Russian operative back to a secure base, and that he had a toxic chemical slowly spreading through his body.   
Beneath him, Coulson stopped typing, letting out a small sigh.   
     “Why aren’t you in medical?” Coulson asked the room, and Clint froze. _Surely he doesn’t know I’m here…_  
Phil shot a knowing look up at the vent, and opened his mouth to say something before going still, hearing something Clint’s aids hadn’t picked up. He focused back on the screen in front of him and resumed typing, and moments later the door swung open.  
     “Cheese.” Fury stepped in, all brooding and dark and scary, as always.   
     “Director,” SuitMan greeted him, looking up from his computer.   
     “I need to speak to Barton.” Fury said, and Clint went completely still, hardly daring to breathe.  
     “He’s in medical, director. He sustained an injury and has dangerous toxins in his system.” Coulson replied blandly.  
     “He’s not in medical, Phil.” Fury said lowly, one eye narrowing. Coulson raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise.  
     “He’s been discharged early? I thought he would have to stay at least a week…”  
     “Don’t give me that shit, Coulson. We both know he never stays there any longer than _he_  deems necessary. I need to talk to him.”   
     “So why did you come here, Sir?” Phil asked.  
     “Really? You’re gonna play innocent? In the year he has worked here, you’re the only person he will talk to voluntarily. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed it, he doesn’t trust anyone else in this building, especially not me.”  
_Nope, nope, nope. This is not something I need to be hearing._  Clint slowly shuffled backwards, stopping by a grating over the hallway and dropping down on the other side of the office door.   
     “If I see him, I’ll let him know.” He heard Phil’s voice say.  
The handle turned and the door opened, Fury stepped out into the corridor, coming face to face with Clint.  
     “You wanted to see me, Sir.”   
Fury’s shoulders sagged, and he sent a glare into the office at Coulson, before shutting the door.  
     “My office, now.” Fury said, turning around with a swish of his coat and stalking down the corridor, not even checking to make sure Clint was following. 

 


	9. but I don't have time for him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury tries to dig into Clint's motives, and digs up some old memories lessons learned, and trust lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hasn't been proofread, sorry! 
> 
> My lovely donut friend wrote the present section of this and i wrote the flashbacks, we didn't know what the other person was writing until we had both finished. We swapped pieces and read them at the same time, so it was an interesting writing exercise, but I think it turned out okay.

Hesitating only long enough to glance hopefully at the door to his handler’s office, Clint accepted his sentence and fell into step behind the Director. He followed Fury's heavy steps down the corridor, his own steps far lighter, thanks to years of circus practice. Eyepatch still hadn't looked back. _How does he know I’m coming? I could just turn around and Fury wouldn’t even notice for another two corridors._ Clint turned his head slightly to the side, glancing behind him in his peripheral vision.  
_Tempting… but maybe he has eyes in the back of his head. That’s why he’s bald. So the hair doesn’t obscure it._   _No. Stupid theory. But he still can’t hear me following… and he certainly can’t see me…_  
Clint stopped walking.  
  


* * *

_He still remembered the first time they took his trust from him. They’d been with the circus for nearly twenty towns now, who knew how many days, and although Clint was still picking up popcorn cups and shining the Ringmaster’s shoes, Barney was moving up in the ranks and respect of the Carnies. Clint had been brushing down one of the mare’s when the Swordsman approached him, looming over him and asking for a favour, the small grin at the edge of his lips confirming what Clint had already assumed: he wouldn’t accept no for an answer._  
  
_Clint followed obediently, not wanting to cause trouble, glancing subtly around for his brother as they walked into the darkening night. His pace quickened and his footsteps slowed as they approached the fence by the side of the field, slipping between the wires and continuing into trees. Leaves crunched underfoot as the carnival music and chatter of the circus folk gradually faded out, but they kept walking._  
  
_Duquesne went still ahead of him, at a seemingly random tree, turning to lean his back against the trunk, eyes roaming over to focus on Clint._

_“Do you trust me, kid?”_

* * *

  
  
"Barton."  
Clint immediately started walking again, inhaling sharply and quickening his pace a little. _Fuck_ , _Eyepatch really does have eyes in the back of his head._  
  
The internal monologue was barely easing the building stress inside Clint's head, which only piqued when they reached Fury's office.  
The man in the black trenchcoat stepped in first, ( _does he wear the same coat everyday? or does he have a whole wardrobe of identical ones, like in that cartoon… that show… which show was it?_ ) and the shorter man followed. He didn't take a seat when the door shut behind him, instead folded his arms.  
"Sir, am I in trouble?" He asked, guarded. _I shouldn’t be in trouble, right? I did what Fury wanted. Not what he asked… but with the Director you always have to read between the lines. But I’m fine, surely. I’d done the right thing… I hope._

 

* * *

_Clint remained still, a safe distance from the Swordsman, but still way too far from the rest of the carnival and his brother to feel safe. He shook his head slowly, not trusting his voice._

_Duquesne smiled. A dark, wolfish grin, as he stepped closer to Clint, daring him to move away. He didn’t._  
_“Can’t blame you for that. But there’s a thing or two you can learn, about trust. You trust your brother, don’t ya? And You trust Trickshot, ey?”_  
_Clint didn’t reply, keeping his gaze on a broken stick by his boot, wondering if he’d have time to make a grab for it if the Swordsman tried anything._  
_“You’d wanna help him out, right? Be a good brother.” Duquesne crouched in front of him, eyes at his level, but Clint still refused to look up. He nodded slightly, not entirely sure what he was getting himself into._  
_“That’s good.” A firm hand clapped him on the shoulder, and Clint resisted the urge to shrink away from it. “Just go along with this, alright? It’ll make it easier for everyone if you don’t struggle.”_  
_Clint jerked his arm out of the man’s grip, backing himself into a tree, boots crunching over stale leaves._  
_“Where’s Barney?” He asked quietly, as Duquesne pulled a long strip of dark material out from his pocket, twisting it between his hands._  
_“He’ll be here soon kid. RingMaster and the acrobats are brining him. But he can’t know you’re here because-.” he went quiet as the murmur of approaching voices reached them through the trees._  
_Clint ducked under his arm and started running back toward the field, toward his brothers voice, but a hand closed around his wrist, yanking him back. He was shoved roughly against the tree, another hand on his jaw, keeping him quiet._  
_“I know you don’t trust me. But I’m not going to hurt you. Only person you need to worry about is your brother.”_  
_And then, before he even had time to register how quickly things were going bad, there was a cloth being pressed over his nose and mouth, a strong smell that made his eyes water, and things were getting darker and those hands were on him again but he could hear Barney laughing somewhere not too far away, so it must be okay. Barney would never hurt him._  
_Right?_

* * *

  
  
     "Barton. I'd like you to tell me what you the hell you did," Fury said, taking a seat at his desk, his voice giving a grand total of absolutely-fucking-nothing away.   
Clint stilled, resisting the urge to chew his lip, the helpful little nervous tic that he'd had since God knows when. Probably back at home. Not the circus home. Before that. _Yowch, don't open that door, Barton._ "Sir, I brought in the Widow, after you insinuated you wanted her alive." ( _Scooby-Doo. That was the show. Why was I even trying to remember that?_ )   
     "And what did you do to accomplish  that?"  
Clint swallowed thickly. "I asked nicely?"  
     "Are we still discussing your 'recruitment' of the Black Widow? Because the report she just gave me, and the report you gave me have a fair number of...variations on the topic of 'asking nicely'. I'm not sure of who to believe on what I've heard, given you both have strong motivations to give very different stories. I guess, as you're the SHIELD operative, it's your word I will have to trust."  
Clint swallowed again. For once, he'd actually been fairly honest in his report. That didn't happen all too often. But he'd figured there was already enough shit in this file with bringing in the Widow and not killing her that what would it matter if they knew the full truth of his... _unorthodox_ methods.   
"Still," Eyepatch continued, "I'd be willing to let all that slide if the original mission had been completed. Stopping the Black Widow from completing any more missions for the KGB. Yet, according to her report, something which you coincidentally _forgot_  to mention, Yavorskiy has taken a damaging dose of 2,3,7,8-Tetrachlorodibenzodioxin. Before you left, I requested your mission report be perfectly detailed. Without this crucial bit of information in your report, but featuring in Romanova's.... Well, that creates the basis for a fairly sound argument suggesting I should trust her report altogether more than yours, Barton.  
Which would, therefore, mean we would have to reject your detail of her stating she was 'owned' and forced to work for the KGB. That in particular is the prime evidence to present to the Council as to why you were right to not assassinate the Widow. If we had to trust her report over yours... Do you see how that would be an issue? We'd have no evidence to suggest you'd made the right decision and although you've managed to get lucky a fair few times, Barton, I can tell you going on the wrong side of the Council is a place where luck doesn't help."  
All Clint could do was listen, nodding slightly as he tried to process all that. "Who's report do you trust then?" He asked, after a moment, wary, his own tone defensive and harder.   


* * *

  
_The fog in his head cleared slowly and everything fell into existence piece by piece. Each sense remembering it’s role and finding a way to communicate fumbled messages to his panicking brain._  
_First, taste. Dirt, and a slight hint of blood. Something metallic. Dry and burning on the back of his throat._  
_Then he could hear a voice that usually made him feel safe, but now it was twisting knots in his stomach._  
_Next he was aware of the gag in his mouth. His grazed knees pressing into the floor. Rough material scratching at his cheek. The incessant pounding in his head._  
_But he still couldn’t see. He blinked a few times, opening and closing his eyes, but seeing no difference._  
_And that was when the smell made sense. The damp, earthy itch of the hemp sacks they stored equipment in when the circus hit the road._  
  
_The voice came again. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was confident. Barney always knew what he was doing. He was never scared. So Clint wasn’t going to be scared either. He set his teeth, staying as still as he could, and taking deep breaths until he could think straight._  
_“Do you trust me, Barney?” The RingMaster’s gruff voice came from somewhere to his left._  
_“Of course.” Barney replied easily, from a little farther away. He didn’t sound upset or hurt. Clint hoped he was okay. He tried to call out to his brother, let him know he was there, ask what was going on. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t make a sound. Couldn’t even see the restraints that were holding him so tightly._  
_“That’s good,” one of the acrobats replied. The one with the accent. Clint didn’t know his name yet. “But how can we be sure that we can trust you?”_  
_“What are ya talking about?” Barney questioned, his voice moving closer, accompanied by soft footfalls._  
_“We want you to join us for a job… but we gotta know you ain’t gonna rat us out.” That was the other acrobat’s voice, the tall one._  
_“I won’t tell no one nothing.” Barney replied steadily, bravery shining through that Clint had always admired but never possessed._  
_“Not even your brother.” The RingMaster added firmly, and there was quiet for a few moments. But the brothers had agreed years ago, an unspoken pact that had sort of built between them and carried from home to orphanage to trailer, that they would always be honest with each other. That they would never keep secrets. Clint would never go behind Barney’s back, so surely his brother would act the same..._  
_“…Okay.” Barney agreed eventually, still too quickly for Clint’s liking. He felt his chest tighten, unease settling between his ribs and panic beginning to thrum through his fingertips._  
_“Can you prove it to us. Show us that you won’t ask questions?” The tall acrobat asked, and there was silence again for a few moments that was so tense it almost drowned out the rustling leaves and far away breeze._  
_Then a noise that sent shivers down Clint’s spine._  
_The unmistakable click of a bullet being loaded into a gun._  
_“What do you want me to do?” Barney asked, quieter now, unsure, and any minute now he had to recognise the kneeling form. Even with a sack over his head, his brother would surely realise it was him, and put a stop to this. Clint reminded himself that Barney wouldn’t let anyone hurt him. Then reminded himself again. And again._  
_“We need you to get rid of him.” The SwordsMan drawled, and Clint was confused for a moment before the two steps of footsteps came towards him, and the panic surged up in his throat again._  
_“Who is he?” Barney asked, his voice close to Clint’s ear. He struggled against the ropes slightly, tried to call out to his brother. “It’s too dark, I can’t see much… only looks like a kid.”_  
_“That’s not important to you.” The SwordsMaster snapped from his right. “He’s no one, just get this over with and you can come with us. If not, well, you better pack your bags, because-"_  
_“No, I… I can do it.” Barney muttered, and Clint froze in place, suddenly not having the energy to even struggle anymore._  
  
_Another shuffle of movement and four pairs of feet backed away, the fifth circling Clint slowly, calculating. His mind screamed at his legs to stand, pleaded for his arms to move, begged for his voice to find itself, but he remained unmoving and silent, a deer in the headlights, not quite accepting his fate, but too resigned to find a way out of it._  
_“So, I just have to shoot him…” Barney’s voice was higher than usual, an uneasy inflection at the end of his query, “and then me brother and I can stay?”_  
_Someone must have nodded, or given some non verbal signal, because there was a mother shift in the air, a click of metal. Clint tried not to imagine his brothers hands wrapped around a gun. Tried not to image that gun being pointed at his head._  
_“I’m doing this for him,” Barney sighed, and Clint only had a half second to realise his brother was about to shoot him, before his world exploded into ear splitting pain, his own silent scream, and somewhere deep inside his writhing body, a heart tearing itself to pieces._

* * *

  
  
  
Fury chuckled, a hard and humourless laugh. "Clint, what do you actually think of trust?"   
The blonde hesitated. "I think it backfires more often than worthwhile."  
The Director shook his head, raising an eyebrow. "You trust SHIELD then?"   
The way he was looking at him let Clint know Fury wanted an honest answer. Clint answered no.   
The bald man smiled, "I don't either. Can you tell me anything you do trust then?"  
Phil. That was the first thought to come to mind. Still, Clint wasn't telling Fury that, he didn't trust him either. So instead, he shook his head, negative.   
"You don't trust me," Fury noted, not criticism, but just a notation.    
Clint shrugged uncomfortably. "You didn't answer my question. Who's report will you be trusting, Director?"  
"Since you don't trust me, what point is there in asking me if you won't trust me answer?" he noted, quite accurate actually, which kind of infuriated Clint. "Talk to Coulson, I handed that decision over to him."  
  
Coulson. Okay. It was down to Coulson about whether they chose his report or hers. SuitMan would be tempted with Widow's, but Phil would go for Clint's, wouldn't he? He trusted Clint....right?  
Yeah, okay, Clint lied a lot to him, especially in field reports, but he told Coulson the truth more than anyone else. Coulson had to know that. He had to trust him. Had to.   
  
"If you don't have any further questions, Director," Clint said, only slightly stumbling over his words, to his credit, as he stood up from his seat.   
Fury shook his head and Clint practically darted from the room.  

 

 

* * *

_Clint woke up on the floor beneath the Big Top, staring up at the equipment hanging far above him. The trapeze, the silks, the cage, the lighting rig. He swallowed down the bad feeling in his throat, trying to figure out how he got to be there. The numb throbbing of his head and sharp burn of his knees and palms slowly brought him to the realisation that he hadn’t woken from a nightmare, hadn’t been dreaming._  
  
_A dull agony buzzed through his veins, slowly bringing excruciating awareness to every inch of his body. His legs twisted on hard ground, arms crumpled beside him, tongue heavy in his throat, ears ringing, ringing, ringing._  
_“Barney_?" _He tried calling out but heard no reply, not even his own voice echoing through the empty tent._  
_Slowly trying to prop himself up, Clint ignored the spinning in his head and the empty silence that was bearing down on him, blocked out the burn, the pain, and focussed. He had to get help. He had to find his brother. He managed to lift his head slightly, enough to see the flaps of the tent thrown open as his brother entered slowly, then sprinted to his side._  
  
_His mouth was moving as he dropped to his knees beside Clint, hands already grasping at his shirt, face worried and questioning, hovering right in front of Clint’s eyes. He blinked wearily, trying to make sense of what his brother was doing, what he was saying, but he wasn’t saying anything. Barney looked away, beckoning to someone out of sight, then lifted Clint carefully, shaking his head as he propped his brother up against his leg, squeezing his hand._  
  
_Two shadows loomed over Clint, cold hands gripping his ankles and armpits, then the floor was gone from beneath him, his brothers hands dropped away, and Clint was floating again, adrift in silence and agony. Watching as the tarp above him gave way to dark skies, then to the peeling roof of the gypsy’s caravan._  
  
_Two sets of eyes peering down at him. His shirt was gone. Hot towels being dragged across screaming skin. His hands were clenching onto something clammy. He glanced over, loosening his grip on his brothers arm. A glass of water was pressed to his lips. Something sticky dabbed at the grazes on his knees, his palms, his elbows. Round white tablets pressed down his throat, chased with water before he could take a breath. Then he was being moved again, somewhere darker, softer, a familiar warmth beside him, strong arms gripping tightly but tenderly around him._  
_“Barney?” he asked again, his voice still lost, but the weight beside him stirred, light flickering on as his brother sat up beside him, a finger to his lips._  
_His brother reached behind him, returning to his vision with a newspaper and pen, then scrawling in the blank margains for a moment before turning the page to face him. Clint squinted at the messy words along the side of the page._

  
_YOU FELL. HIT YOUR HEAD. EARS GOT HURT._

  
_Clint frowned. He hadn’t fallen. Nor had he hit his head. And there couldn’t be anything wrong with his ears, that just wasn’t right. He was just sick, or something. He shook his head. Barney sighed, nodded, then continued to write._

  
_WHY WERE YOU CLIMBING THE RIG?! ON YOUR OWN!?!_

  
_Clint shook his head, because he never touched the rig. He knew it was out of bounds, and dangerous, and that he wasn’t even allowed to clean it without being supervised by one of the Carnies. Even though he longed to sneak in and climb all over it, he knew he would get kicked out if he was ever discovered._

  
_DON’T LIE! SWORDMASTER SAW YOU ON TRAPEZE LADDER._

_I CAME TO TELL YOU TO GET DOWN. FOUND YOU ON THE GROUND._

_LUCKY YOU DIDN’T BREAK BONES._

  
_“I wasn’t though, Barney! I swear, I didn’t go near th-“ Clint’s protests were cut short by his brothers hand covering his mouth, eyes urgent. Clint slumped his shoulders in defeat. He wanted to tell his brother he knew what they forced him to do in the woods. Needed to tell his brother how he really got hurt. Had to make him realise what he had done, so he could apologise, and they would be alright again. Barney would take them someplace else when he found out. They’d be on the streets for a while, but eventually they’d find someplace safer to stay. He had to get away from the circus._

  
_WILL TALK TO RINGMASTER TOMORROW._

_HE GONNA BE MAD._

  
_Clint struggled up against the sheets, shaking his head furiously, hands scrabbling to find the pen as he scrawled a hasty reply._

_NO NO NO! CANT TRUST CARNIES! NEED TO GET AWAY FROM THEM!_

  
_Barney frowned, glaring at Clint for a moment, then mouthing ‘Go to sleep!’ He balled up the paper and tossed it on the floor, shutting off the light, and slumping onto the pillow beside Clint. This time his arms didn’t pull him in. Clint laid down gingerly next to his brother, curling into his safe warmth._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowow 1000+ hits, thank you all so much, please leave comments if you have any advice, requests, or parting thoughts.
> 
> also, everytime this piece gets Kudos, Clint Barton pats a dog.  
> help Clint to pat every single dog.


	10. it's gonna be a glorious day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the mess of the last mission, Clint knows he has to win his way back into the good books. But that's easier said than done.

  
Clint arrived to the briefing room predictably late, with a coffee in hand. _It’s 7am, they can’t expect me to be on time or without coffee, it’s just not humane._ He knocked lightly on the door, waiting a moment before pushing it open and stepping into the tense silence, five eyes on him. _Eek._  Fury was sitting at the head of the table, hands propped in a temple, chin resting on his finger tips. Good eye tracking his movements as he closed the door behind him and moved to his empty seat. Coulson glanced up from his paperwork, looking far too impeccably presentable for such an ungodly hour. He glanced at the clock on the wall, sighed silently, then continued reading the booklet in his hands. Clint dropped into the chair beside Natalia, and she said nothing, eyes moving back to the two senior agents across from them.   
  
Somehow, Fury and Coulson had managed to file enough paperwork and twist enough arms to let the Russian stay on a probation period, in which she would assist Coulson and Clint on missions. After a month her performance would be re-evaluated, and if she proved trustworthy and reliable, she would be given a position at SHIELD.   
  
Clint totally wasn’t feeling like a proud older brother.  
He definitely wasn’t.  
  
  
     “Good morning, Agent Barton,” Fury leaned back in his chair, “so nice of you to join us.”   
     “My pleasure, Mr Director,” Clint fought back a yawn.   
     “Barton, Romanova,” Coulson acknowledged them in turn with a nod, “we’re starting with a fairly simple assignment, just to see how you work together. Espionage, simple extraction of information, no firefight necessary, no mess expected.”   
Clint glanced down at the file that had been slid across the desk to him, taking a sip of his coffee and flicking the first page open.   
     “You’ll be posing as Lisa and Henry Carver, going out for dinner at an upstate restaurant. We have intel to say that this man,” Coulson tapped the photo on the insider cover of their file, “will be meeting with someone who is supplying inside information to outside sources. All you have to do is confirm the identity of the leak, no further action to be taken. Questions?”   
     “So am I Henry or Lisa?” Clint asked lightly, flicking eyes scanning over the photo to memorise the man’s face.   
     “You’re Henry, 34 year old, works in architecture, used to play badminton, you’re taking Lisa out for their wedding anniversary, it’s been nine years since the wedding in San Fransisco, you moved here to be closer to your wife’s marketing job.” Natalia rectied, having already memorised the characters bio’s.   
Coulson flicked his gaze to her, giving an approving nod, as Fury raised an impressed eyebrow.  
     “Watch out, Barton, you’re being outshone.” The Director warned with a smirk.   
Clint frowned, draining the rest of his coffee and reading over the cover story details.   
     “I’ll be on comms, and nearby, as always. But it won’t be necessary for me to intercept, as nothing is going to go wrong. Understood?” Coulson asked clearly, grey eyes fixing on both of them for a long moment each.   
     “Understood,” Natalia nodded, closing her file and resting her hands on top of it.  
     “Yeah, you always say that,” Clint sighed, then feeling SuitMan’s gaze turn hard, he hastily nodded. “Understood, Sir.”  
     “I expect the three of you back in here for a debrief within forty five minutes of returning from the operation. Dismissed.” The Director stood, stalking from the room with a flick of his cape.   
  
Clint glanced over at Natalia, sitting in her standard issue SHIELD rig, slightly oversized, sleeves rolled up. She was near impossible to read, but he still had a good feeling about bringing her in. He just hoped this mission would be a success and prove his point. She glanced at SuitMan, then at Clint, then back at SuitMan, an odd expression crossing her face, before she stood and exited quietly, taking her file.   
     “Barton,” Phil said, snapping Clint’s attention back to Coulson’s eyes and _woah that’s an intense stare he is giving me, why’s he looking at me like that?_  Clint schooled his expression, drumming his fingers casually on the arm of his chair with feigned indifference.  
     “That’s me,” he gave a quick grin, meeting his handlers eyes despite the way it made his insides feel.  
     “You do realise this mission isn’t just to test the Widow, correct?” Phil checked, “Fury needs to know you can still follow orders and that your judgement is not in any way compromised.”  
_Oh. Well then. Shit._  
     “Compromised?” Clint raised an eyebrow, trying to play cool. “Look, I admit I went my own way with the last op, but it’s nothing to do with her. She’s not influencing my actions or anything.”  
     “Clint,” Coulson said quietly, glancing over Clint’s shoulder to ensure the door had shut behind Natalia. “The way you acted could be described as out of character… a conflict of interests. The Black Widow is known to have certain methods of getting people to do what she wants. You know the rules on fraternisation, you think it’s a coincidence that your first mission together calls for you to pose as a couple?”  
     “Wait… Eyepatch thinks I saved her life cus of a schoolboy crush or something?” Clint huffed in annoyance.  
     “He’s simply testing the waters. It wouldn’t be the first time a male agent has gone against orders when a woman is involved, and if the two of you are going to be working together for the foreseeable future, he needs to ensure you can do it professionally, without any… complications.” Coulson spoke drily, his posture and tone professional, only his eyes giving away how perturbed he was by the topic.   
     “Fury thinks I can’t keep my eyes forward if I’m teamed with a chick? Is that what you’re saying?” Clint said in disbelief. _As if I’m gonna get emotionally attached to another agent. No way in hell that would happen. Ever. Not ever. Not even if they were my handler. Nope._  
     “She has a reputation, Barton, so if there’s any chance that a bond beyond just work colleagues is forming, the partnership will have to be ended. I’m not doubting your abilities, Clint, I just… I have to admit there’s been something off about you lately, and whatever it is, I don’t want to be the one putting you on suspension for becoming comprised by someone on your team.”   
Clint swallowed the words in his throat, hands fidgeting under the table. _Ummm._  He nodded, still trying to think of something to say to prove he still had his head on straight. _Bad choice of wording, Barton._  
     “Agent,” SuitMan pressed, “If there is any chance of an attachment, romantic or otherwise, forming between you and another SHEILD member, as your handler I need you to inform me so that I can pair you with someone else _before_  everything goes to shit and Fury gets on my ass about it.”   
Clint lowered his eyes, ( _don’t fuck this up),_ cleared his throat, _(get a hold of yourself)_ , and plastered on an easy smile.   
     “Don’t worry, Coulson, there’s absolutely nothing between me and Romanova at all. And if there _was,_  I’m pretty sure she’d kill me before I could make a move.” _Well… you didn’t lie._  
SuitMan watched him thoughtfully for a moment, nodded, and then stood, gathering his paperwork.  
     “We depart in 90 minutes, see you then.” Phil left the room, the door swinging shut behind him.  
The moment it was closed, Clint dropped his head onto the table top with a _thump._    
     “Awww, I’m so fucked.”  
  
  
  
—  
  
The flight to their location was fairly uneventful. Coulson working on some forms, occasionally giving them pop quizzes about their personas like  _'What year did Lisa and Henry meet?_ ’ or ‘ _Whats the name of the marketing company Mrs Carver works with?_ ’ Natalia always answered immediately and correctly, but eventually (after a few pointed stares from Coulson), she began waiting for Clint to try and remember the fabricated information before helpfully providing it. Clint was trying, okay, thats what’s counts.   
Other than the occasional mission related queries, the three of them travelled in silence, Natalia watching the scenery pass miles below them, and Clint looking anywhere but at Phil, who was chewing the end of his pen in an incredibly distracting way, dammit.   
  
When they were about an hour from landing, Natalia unbuckled her seatbelt, stood, and moved toward the back of the quinjet to start getting ready. Clint let his gaze wander as he ran over ever possible way the mission could shape out, and what actions they would take to get it back on track.   
     “Clint?” Phil’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he realised while he was daydreaming, he’d been staring right at him.  
     “Gah, sorry, uh,” Clint quickly averted his gaze, feeling his cheeks warm.  
     “Is something up?” Coulson asked, noticing Clint’s discomfort.  
     “No. Nope. Absolutely fine.” Barton smiled at the space just to the left of SuitMan’s eyes, thinking up a plausible change to the conversation, “just wish I could take my bow with me.”   
     “It’s an undercover mission, Clint,” Coulson chuckled lightly, sending a warm feeling through Clint’s spine. “Having a bow and arrow won’t exactly help you to blend in.”   
     “Yeah but me in a suit isn’t exactly a normal looking thing either, I’ll stick out like a sore thumb around all the rich people.” Clint grumbled.  
     “Nonsense, I helped pick the attire for this mission, the two of you will look fine. Noticing things is what you’re good at, so it shouldn’t even take long, we’ll all be headed back in no time.” Coulson said confidently.   
     “I’m glad you’re so certain,” Clint sighed, loosening his seatbelt and standing. His joints cracked as he reached his arms overhead, stretching his spine with a yawn. Coulson’s gaze followed his movements, unreadable. “I better go polish up."  
  
He headed to the back of the quinjet where Mr Carver’s clothes were hanging, unzipping the bag with a frown as Natalia glanced up from where she was perched on a crate, styling her hair into something fancy and complicated.   
     “Lisa and Henry have co-ordinating outfits, how quaint,” she commented drily, slipping a few more pins in to hold her hair in place so that it concealed the knife she had hidden in her red locks. _Wait, what!?_  
     “This was a no weapons op, you realise,” Clint smirked, trying not to show that he was secretly impressed. She batted her eyelashes coyly at him.  
     “I don’t have a clue what you mean,” she smiled, but it was a Lisa Carver smile, not a Natalia Romanova smile. “The only weapons with us are those tranquilliser arrow heads you stashed in your pocket when Coulson wasn’t looking.”   
Clint’s grin faltered, and he glanced over his shoulder to ensure that SuitMan wasn’t paying attention to their conversation.  
     “How the _hell_  did you know about those? You weren’t even in the room!” He hissed, hand instinctively dropping to his pocket to trace over the familiar pieces of metal.   
     “I won’t tell if you don’t,” she said playfully, satisfied with her hair, and moving on to start applying Lisa’s date night makeup.   
Clint bristled. This mission was supposed to prove that the could both follow orders. That neither of them were hiding anything. Yet here they were, not even out of the quinjet yet, and already they were both keeping secrets from their handler.  _Oopsies._  
  
With a sigh of defeat, Clint sat down, taking off his well worn boots and placing them carefully against the wall, shooting a look of disgust at the dress shoes he was being forced to wear. _Let’s hope theres no running or climbing involved in this op…_    
He stepped out of her line of sight to swap his SHIELD cargo pants for the sleek material of the dark blue trousers, testing the elasticity of them. _Mobility slightly impaired, less than ideal._ Tossing his tee shirt into the corner, he tugged the white shirt off the hanger, wrinkling his nose at it for a moment before reluctantly shrugging it on.  
     “Coulson, you can’t possibly expect me to sit still in this thing, it’s stifling, I’m gonna die before we even reach the venue,” Clint complained, fumbling with the buttons. SuitMan glanced up from his paper work, and for a moment Clint swore he saw something flash in his eyes, but it was gone immediately, the neutral facade taking its usual place.  
     “I’m sure Miss Romanova has ample training in cardiopulmonary resuscitation,” Phil replied coyly, looking to Natalia for confirmation.  
     “I might, but Mrs Carver certainly doesn’t and I’d hate to break character,” she murmured, carefully brushing on a contour to alter the lines of her face. Clint grumbled under his breath, straightening out the shirt and tucking it in haphazardly, stealing another cautious glare at his handler and fellow agent before moving the arrowheads from his cargo pants to his new pockets, reassured by the near silent clinking of steel by his thigh. Grabbing the shoes and jacket, he padded back to the seating area in his socks, hanging the jacket carefully so it wouldn’t crease, and sitting down to tug the footwear on. Once the uncomfortable shoes were laced tightly, he gave up on trying to look presentable and rolled up the sleeves of the dress shirt.  
     “You realise you’re going to have to do something about your hair,” Coulson muttered without looking up. _Excuse you?_  
     “Um. What?” Clint pouted, one hand running self consciously over his tousled mess of hair.    
     “Hair. Comb. Pronto.” SuitMan drawled lazily, pen still scratching across paper.   
     “My hair looks great, thank you very much,” he defended, glaring at his laces as he tied them a little too tightly.   
     “I never said it didn’t,” Phil pointed out, “but it looks like caffeine-fueled-Clint, rather than respectable-date-Henry."  
Clint was about to protest, stopped only when Natalia sashayed back between them, dropping a comb in his lap as she delicately sat beside him, gown a matching navy shade, diamonds on her ears.   
     “Fix your hair, or I will.” She said dangerously, and it didn’t take much more convincing for Clint to start taming his unruly locks.   
  
  
When they were ten minutes from setdown, SuitMan got them both to stand next to each other, posing as the Carvers. He glanced them up and down, seemingly satisfied with their co-ordinating attire, rolling his eyes at Clint’s bare forearms, and then pausing.  
     “Mr Carver,” he said quietly, yet sternly, eyes boring into Clint’s. “What’s in your pocket?”   
     “My wallet, can’t expect my wife to pay for dinner when I’m the one taking her out.” Clint replied carefully.  
     “Your other pocket, Barton.” Coulson didn’t sound impressed. _Aw, no._    
     “Maybe I’m just excited to see my wife all dolled up.” Clint tried to distract SuitMan with a joke. It didn’t work.   
     “Agent Barton,” Coulson ’s glare intensified. ( _Note to self, don’t try dick jokes around SuitMan_ ).   
     “Fine, okay, three arrow heads, just in case, you know I get antsy when I can’t have real weapons on me.” Clint tripped over his words, squirming under the firm glare being focussed on him, but not missing the satisfied smirk that crossed Natalia’s face.   
     “Mr Carver does not carry weapons,” SuitMan stated blandly.  
     “Neither does Mrs Carver, might I add,” he shot out defensively, sending a sideways glance at his partner.   
     “The possession of Miss Romanova’s three weapons has already been discussed with me, she is not in breach of trust.” Coulson said evenly. _Wait… three?_  
“That’s so unfair. How come she gets weapons? I’ve been with SHEILD for _way_ longer!” Clint frowned in annoyance.  
     “Because, Barton, I don’t lie on mission reports.” She smiled sweetly at him, and his fingers itched to throw one of his precious arrow heads in her face. _No, don’t upset SuitMan. You gotta impress him. Make him trust you again. You gotta._  
     “Fine.” Clint took the three arrowheads from his pocket, tossing them toward Coulson, who caught them without batting an eyelid. “You just wait. I’m gonna ace this mission, and write up a report so good it will blow your brains into next Thanksgiving.”   
Coulson smiled at him, warm, if a little skeptical. “Remember that ideal mission we discussed, Barton? Let this op be like that.” Phil said, and when he had that hopeful gleam in his eyes, Clint could do nothing except agree and hope to all heavens that he could make it happen.

 

 

 


	11. I feel my luck could change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High places. Caffeine. Feelings.
> 
> Two things Clint loves. One thing he hates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my amazing buddy helped me with this chapter, go stalk her instagram or tumble @psychoassassins

As soon as he was free of the briefing and the paperwork, Clint made his way up to the roof. It had been a pleasantly chilly day, slightly cloudy with a soft breeze, but no rain. He liked days like this. Where the empty silence of the grey skies stretched out past the rooftops. Cold enough that people mostly stayed inside, but not as cold as sleeping under bridges in winter or packing up the circus tent in the pouring rain.   
  
Clint was craving a coffee. Had been since the mission had ended, six hours ago, but he had no chance before the briefing, and by the time it was over, he didn’t want to risk bumping into anyone and being dragged into a conversation. So he sat by the parapet, switched off his hearing aids, and watched the light drain from the sky.  
  
Things were going okay, for a change.  
And it terrified him.  
Because nothing good ever happened to Clint.  
He lived his life on a balanced low, so he knew that going this long without anything bad happening… it couldn’t be a good sign. His luck was due to even out, sooner or later, and if he didn’t get around to it first, something bad was going to happen.  
  
And for the first time in a long time, he actually cared.   
  
He’d tried not to think about it. Tried not to acknowledge it, not to notice it, not to realise it. As though that could make it go away.   _It_  being the weird warmth that occasionally infiltrated his chest, the pleasant tingling that ran through his entire existence, the upward curl he couldn’t bite down from the corner of his lip and fondness that drummed through his fingers overtime he saw a certain pair of cufflinks, a certain tie, a certain set of grey eyes.  
  
This was not his life.  
  
Avoiding things was near the top of Clint’s list of skills, but no matter his efforts to not think about the thing, Natalia had come right between that and tore down his safeguards with the simplest knowing grin and he totally wasn’t mad at her. He didn’t blame her for noticing what must have been obvious. If only it was as obvious to to the person he so desperately wanted to speak to about it. Not that he could, that wouldn’t be a conversation he could ever see going in his favour. No, best to stay quiet, observe from afar, keep a safe distance. That always works.   
  
  
A dulled noise caught his attention, somewhere behind his left ear, muffled through ringing silence. Clint’s hands instinctively reached up to turn his aids back on, but he kept his vision forward, not turning to the distraction, not giving whoever disturbed him the satisfaction. The sky was his audience tonight.   
  
Footsteps. Carefully paced, deliberately making noise, where usually they would be silent.  _Someone isn’t trying to sneak up on me. But if they wanted me to know they were here… why wouldn’t they just say something?_  A soft sound of something being placed on the ground, then nothing.   
  
  
When they still hadn’t spoken, after seventy nine seconds, curiosity got the better of him, and Clint turned to look.   
There was no one there. The door to the stairwell was slightly ajar, but the only other difference to the rooftop was the styrofoam cup placed halfway between the doorway and the parapet, obviously intended for Clint. He stood warily, approaching it cautiously, his nose confirming his hopes.  _Coffee._  
  
Slowly extending a sleeved hand, he picked up the cup, nestling it between his two hands, jumper protecting his palms from the heat. Peering suspiciously around, Clint confirmed that no one was watching him before taking a careful sip.  _Hallelujah._ Grinning triumphantly at the gift sent from the heavens, he turned back to take up his prior spot on the parapet, freezing in place and nearly dropping his newly acquired coffee when he saw that someone else was sitting there.  
     “Coulson?!” Clint squawked, jaw dropping in an impressive mimicry of a goldfish.  
     “You’re avoiding me,” Phil said simply, not glancing back from where he was sitting, sipping his own coffee.  _Ninja._  “Sit. Talk to me.”   
     “What?” Clint’s shoulders dropped. “No. I’m not- no. Wait… you brought me coffee?”   
     “It worked, didn’t it? Besides, I know you’re running on no sleep, you probably needed one.” Coulson stated calmly.  _Wait… what worked? And how does he know that?_    
     “Um,” was all he managed to reply.   
     “Something’s bothering you, Barton, don’t think I haven’t noticed. Your performance hasn’t dropped, so as a handler it’s none of my business. But in the months you’ve been here, I’ve never seen you talk willingly to anyone else, so even if you don’t consider me a friend, I’m probably the closest you have to one, and I’m concerned for your wellbeing.” Phil informed him, as though it was the simplest most obvious thing ever, and wasn’t currently making all Clint’s organs seize up and fall into his feet.  _Aww, heart, no._ He stood numbly, insides churning, staring at his handler in a mixture of guilty shock and barely suppressed relief.   
     “Um,” Clint repeated, just in case Coulson hadn’t heard him properly the first time.  
Phil gestured to the concrete beside him, taking another drink of his coffee. Clint shuffled over obediently, sitting down near him, and pulling his feet up onto the parapet beneath him, tucking his knees under his arms, casting a suspicious glance at the superior agent.   
     
They sat quietly, Coulson’s gaze never leaving the skyline, as Clint hid behind his coffee. When he placed the takeaway cup down silently and opened his mouth to speak, Phil’s eyes found his immediately, turning his full attention to Clint.  
     “Remember when you first talked to me…  in the warehouse. That was a good luck day. Dodged four bullets to the brain, learnt your name, got a new job. Felt like the luckiest day my life,” Clint sighed, and Coulson nodded but didn’t interrupt, so he continued. “But almost every day since then it’s felt like I’ve only gotten luckier. Things keep  _working_ , and I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for it to all come crashing down. Nothing this good ever lasts. I don’t just get this lucky, maybe some people, but not me. It’s wrong, and it’s all going to even out soon enough and I don’t want to see it happen. I can’t just sit around waiting for my luck to run out.”  
Coulson was silent.  _Why the hell did you tell him all that?_ Clint downed the rest of his coffee, then crumpled the cup in his hand, placing it down between them.   
     “Clint,” Phil said softly, his voice so gentle it made him flinch because  _no one says my name like that. They only call me Clint when they’re mad._ “You don’t have to earn the right to be happy with your life. If things are going better than usual, it’s because you deserve it. You’re a hardworking and true person; this isn't luck, you've earned this,  _you_  made this all happen, just by being you. Okay?"  
     Clint was silent for half a minute or so. "Coulson, you don't understand, I haven't done anything. I haven't earned any of this, I've done my job, which, by the way, is  _killing_  people, and tried to stay alive. I'm not some good person who's paid their dues and is now getting what they deserve. None of this is right, I feel like I'm living someone else's life on borrowed time."  
     Phil sighed, rubbing his face a little, then sighing again. "I can't argue this with you, I can't make you see it any differently. You'll see soon enough, I know. Still, that's not the only thing that's wrong." His head tilted, catching Clint's eyes and the blonde turned away quickly, knowing Phil read him all too well sometimes.  
  
He couldn't explain to Phil that  _he_  was the problem. Well, no, Phil was never a problem. There was something wrong with Clint's feelings, not something wrong with Phil. There was never anything wrong with Phil.  
     "It's nothing."   
He could  _feel_ Phil's unrelenting gaze burning into the side of his face, not taking that for an answer.   
     "It's nothing you can help with, okay?"  
  
_That came out a little harsher than intended_. Still, Phil seemed unfazed.  
     "Even if I can't help, it might be better for you to get it off your chest."  
  
     "Drop it." _Okay, that definitely came out too harsh. Now he’s gonna leave and you’ll be all alone again. Like you said, lucks running out._  
Four and a half minutes passed and Phil was still there. Albeit, wearing the ConcernedCoulson™ frown, but he hadn't left.   
  
     Coulson finally broke the silence. "If you ever do need to talk, you know that I will listen, alright Clint?"   
      "'preciate it," Clint found himself nodding, and words spilled out that sounded foreign, that made his relationship with Phil seem that little bit deeper. That couldn't be right, it felt like he was someone else, someone who could actually make it work with Phil. And that was dead wrong, "thank you."  
  
After that, Phil still didn't leave. He simply stayed, breathing just loud enough for Clint to hear and time his own breaths to. He liked that. He liked being able to sit silently, pretending he was focusing on the sunset when really he was trying to capture every element of Phil's existence in his mind for the rainy days he knew would come. After all, it was just his luck. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have any ideas/suggestions/requests for the rest of this fic, please please please feel free to comment :)


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